


The Dating Game

by Britpacker



Series: Dating Games [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: First Dates, Inexperienced Trip, M/M, New Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dating someone with the same kit in his toolbox.  It's all new to Trip, but with Malcolm's help he's sure he'll get the hang of it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Same, But Different

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere early in Season 2. The movie Trip's chosen for date night may be familiar thanks to the novel that forms the basis of a certain TNG episode!

Trip Tucker wet his parched lips, finger hovering a millimetre above the doorchime. Nerves tightened his belly but there was something more holding him back, a sense of delicious anticipation that made every fine hair down his body prickle. Finally, he was picking up the crewmate he was crazy in love with for a date. 

A real, live, proper date. Dinner and a movie.

Okay, so nobody else was actually going to notice it was a date. To the rest of the gang shovelling Chef’s finest before racing for seats close to the big screen it would be Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed eating together like they always did when their shift patterns allowed. 

Malcolm seemed to find the thought amusing, but then he’d always been the secretive type. What surprised Trip was that the illicit thrill of the whole _hidden-in-plain-sight_ thing was getting to him as well.

He barely had time to touch the chime before the door slid open. As if the other man had been waiting there on the other side all along he decided, pleased by the implicit compliment. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Equally shy, Malcolm Reed dipped his long sable lashes, the faintest trace of a blush clinging to the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. “Didn’t want to keep you waiting,” he added vaguely.

“You’re worth waiting for, Mal.” The line, cheesy as it rang, was sincere and it deepened the rose tint to the younger man’s sharp features. “You look amazing.”

“You don’t think it’s too much?” Usually Reed would attend in uniform, blending into the background. Tonight, in black jeans and a rich claret open-necked shirt, muscular arms exposed by the short sleeves – well, Trip Tucker figured anything in possession of a pulse was going to notice the man at his side. He suspected he might be standing fifteen centimetres taller than usual with sheer pride.

“I think you should get out of uniform more often.” The colours emphasized the dark-haired Englishman’s pale skin as perfectly as the casual clothes showed off his lithe build, something the standard Starfleet jumpsuit managed to cruelly disguise. Before he could embarrass himself by staring too long, Tucker did a dramatic twirl. “Now aren’t you gonna tell me how hot I look?”

“You look – actually very presentable.” Reed’s dry rejoinder got the response he anticipated, an explosive snort of Floridian laughter. Trip smoothed his restrained blue-grey-green patterned shirt down with a definite preen.

“Figured I’d better go conservative on a first date,” he joked, offering his arm with a flourishing bow and accepting the friendly punch his gallantry received with a wink. “You okay to go?”

“I believe so.” The butterflies had stilled in his stomach and as he fell into step alongside his best friend Malcolm felt foolish for allowing them to flutter at all. Dinner and Movie Night with Trip. He’d done it a hundred times before.

But the handsome blond had never kept peeking sideways at him as they walked; never stepped back at the turbolift, shyly inviting Malcolm to enter ahead. Nor had he smiled that small, sweet, _intimate_ smile that lingered while they were carried, far too quickly for Reed’s taste, to their destination.

“You get those sensors back online?”

“D’ you think I’d be stopping to eat if we hadn’t?” _There, that was perfectly normal, wasn’t it?_ Trip shrugged. 

“I stopped by late afternoon but Mueller said you had everything in hand – you were somewhere down the neck of the aft cannon I think.”

“Temperamental bastard. The cannon, not Mueller.”

“Nah, he seems cool.” Absently waving to Travis on the far side of the mess where the boomer was arranging seating for the show Tucker accepted a tray and slotted into the queue at the galley counter. Malcolm sniffed.

He had a whole range of sniffs, each with its own subtle meaning and each in its own way as expressive as the changeable steel-to-sea-and-back-again eyes a certain chief engineer often found himself drowning in. This one, to a well-attuned ear, clearly meant: _Not so sure about that!_

“What gives?”

“Hm? Oh, I was just thinking Crewman Fisher might not share your opinion of Mueller’s laid-back nature.”

“Are you telling me I’ve missed something?” Chef offered him – _something_ and Tucker nodded, for once as uninterested in the contents of his dinner plate as Reed himself. Squeezing himself into the narrow bench space between bulkhead and table, Malcolm flashed a wicked grin.

Something twanged hard and deep in Tucker’s balls. It took all the concentration he possessed to focus on his date’s next few words.

“Fisher thinks Mueller’s got his eye on Crewman Jonas from Mineralogy. He doesn’t want to have borrowed all those dull books on crystal formations from the database for nothing, so when Seb threw him a bit too enthusiastically in combat training the other week… well, Mister Fisher took it personally. I heard him whinging to Dowler in the changing room after.”

“Fisher’s chasin’ Jonas, huh? You know, I always thought she had a crush on Novakovic.”

“Oh, she does. She and Ensign Wie have a bet on over who beds him first. I’m not sure what the winner gets – other than a shag from Novakovic, obviously. Trip, why are you gawking?”

Dropping his knife, Tucker smacked his jaw back into place. Hard. “Since when were you the king of ship’s scuttlebutt?” he demanded. Reed shrugged.

“Always good strategy to know the foibles of one’s associates, Commander,” he purred before freezing with a forkful of pasta halfway to his puckered lips. “Bugger! Sorry, we agreed no titles, didn’t we?”

“’S okay.” The Englishman was genuinely stricken by a minor slip that had no effect on anything but his companion’s heart rate. “Jus’ between the two of us, I’ve always thought it’s kinda sexy, the way you say that.”

Well-marked dark brows made a climb no Vulcan’s could equal. “I’ve got rather fond of _Lew-tenant_ , now you mention it,” he said, hands folding almost primly on the table. Trip had to clasp his against the urge to reach out and hold them. “Of course the Old Bastard would do his nut if he knew I wasn’t sticking to the Royal Navy standard _Lef_ tenant.”

He sat a little straighter. Turned his thin, mobile lips down into a lowering scowl. “Damned shoddy practice, mangling an ancient rank. Just goes to show what happens when you let _Americans_ run a service, Mary.”

Trip pursed his lips. “Guess your Daddy wouldn’t like me, then.”

“No, but he’s always had lousy taste,” Malcolm agreed. His mouth twitched.

Oblivious to the curious glances they attracted from early movie-goers heading toward the front rows of seating, both men snickered, guilty embarrassment mutated into merciful, ill-timed humour.

“You’re not much like him then.”

“Sure of yourself, Mister Tucker?”

“You did say yes when I asked for a date, Mistah Reed.”

“So I did.” The rarest of Reed smiles, a thousand megawatt beam that knocked the universe off its axis every time, flashed across the table. “Have I thanked you yet?”

“You’re awfully polite, you know? I should be thanking you for not deckin’ me.”

“Can’t say it occurred to me, actually.” Their hands were close now: plates pushed aside, contents forgotten. From the way the armoury officer was staring Tucker suspected he wasn’t the only one wanting the courage to shift a little closer, feel skin against skin for the first time, but with the audience beginning to build neither dared make the first move. “I mean, it’s not one of those _awkward_ first dates, is it? We already know we like each other.”

Tucker shuffled in his chair. “Yeah, but there’s likin’ and there’s…”

“Liking?” Reed suggested, surprisingly self-assured. It dissolved in an instant, teeth appearing to nip his lower lip as he went on, half-reluctantly. “I’ve fancied you for ages but I never thought for a moment you might…”

“Like you?” Trip offered.

“Like me,” Malcolm affirmed shyly.

The Brit looked, Trip considered, about as dazed as he felt; as if somehow this dinner, this same-but-different evening, wasn’t quite real. “Nice to know it’s mutual, huh?” he murmured, taking advantage of a common courtesy – gathering up their trays – to get a little closer, pouring the words into the delicate shell of the smaller man’s ear. Reed’s shiver seemed to pass right through the narrow gap between them.

“Christ, yes! Shall I grab us seats before they’re all gone?”

“Good idea. You want popcorn?”

“No thanks.”

“You can always share mine?”

“Hold him to that, Malcolm.” Captain Archer paused on his way from the private dining room to hail his startled tactical officer. “That’s not an offer you’ll hear often!”

“I’ll bear it in mind, Sir.” The attention diverted his way bothered Reed for a split second but when his best friend settled into the seat on his right, a brimming box of sticky treats on his knees, it stopped mattering. “Is it just me or is this _odd_?” he whispered, stretching a little closer when the lights went down.

The reply came through a mouthful of popcorn. “What’s odd?”

“This. We’re here on our first date and nobody’s got a bloody clue. It’s funny, really.”

“Hilarious. You want some?”

“No, thanks. What’s playing? I didn’t think to check the schedule.”

“Some gangster thing – _Hotel Royale_.” As Trip answered the question, the words scrolled up on the big screen. “Based on a novel nobody’s read, far as I can make out. Doesn’t sound great, but at least we got popcorn.”

“You have.” Satisfied nobody would notice in the dark, Malcolm shifted until his thigh was pressing lightly against his neighbour’s. A moment later sticky fingers brushed across his knees, coming to rest against his knuckle.

Slowly the Englishman uncurled his hand and turned it, his sharp ear catching Trip’s shaky exhale even above his own when their palms connected. A moment later he felt a light tug, and unresisting he let his captured limb be lowered into the concealing darkness between them.

With the lights off, he assured himself firmly, nobody could possibly spot the soppy smile he could feel spreading across his face.  


*

“Malcolm?”

“Yes, Trip?”

“This is shit, right?”

“Total and utter, I’d say. Remind me never to read the book.”

“Sometimes the books are better,” the Southerner offered doubtfully. “Hell, it couldn’t be worse!”

“The film version might just be condensed crap.”

“As opposed to unexpurgated crap?” Hoshi Sato leaned forward, almost trapping her head between their shoulders. Neither man moved. “Do you think humans ever _really_ talked like this? It’s like every cliché in the English language has been run together through the UT!”

“Maybe it’d sound better if they’d found some actors instead of these planks?” Malcolm sounded dubious. “Honestly, if _Vanessa’s_ bosom wasn’t heaving so violently I’d be certain she was solid hardwood!”

“Hey, forget that - how can you take a guy called _Texas_ seriously? Maybe he’s got a mouth as big as the sky or somethin’…”

More people, Tucker suspected, were tuning into their critical dissection of the movie than were actually watching the show itself. Normally he wouldn’t have minded that and Malcolm still seemed relaxed, their palms paddling in the gap between their thighs, but if Hoshi were to squint down a little…

“I suppose it’s possible people in casinos _did_ sound like that in the twentieth century,” the linguist observed and he let out a small silent prayer to the god of engineers for the intellectual stimulus that diverted her attention back to screen at a critical point. “It’s recognisably English, in the same way that Shakespeare…”

Reed’s shudder ripped right up Tucker’s arm. “Trust me, Hoshi, there is nothing in this stinking pile of horse shit that _remotely_ resembles the Bard.”

“Except they’re speaking a form of English that I barely recognise.”

“She’s got a point.”

“Shakespeare’s dialogue, phraseology aside, is far more realistic than this drivel.”

“Give me Chaucer over this any day.” He could hear Hoshi’s wince even as Malcolm matched it. “You still study the original in British schools?”

“The benefits of a classical education. The Wife of Bath’s Tale. Quite good fun for pubescent boys, once you get the hang of it.”

What kind of _fun_ Tucker gathered from Sato’s snort. “Men!”

The hand holding his tightened momentarily. “I really don’t know what you mean, Ensign,” Reed answered mildly. “It does make one think, though.”

_Uh-oh. One of those crazy intellectual leaps we’re all supposed to follow comin’ up!_

Hoshi saved him the embarrassment of asking. “What does?”

“Daniels.” Yes, that was Malcolm’s faintly exasperated, _do try and keep up, dear_ tone alright. Trip enjoyed it, when it wasn’t being aimed like a phase pistol his way. “When you think about it, we’re as ancient to him as Chaucer is to us – nine hundred years, give or take. Does he need some kind of translator when he drops in to annoy us? People might be communicating in binary code by the thirty-first century for all we know.”

“Remind me never to go there.” The Communications Officer slumped back in her seat and Trip released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “They’ll have computers doing all the good stuff and a lot of unemployed linguists on their hands if that happens, Lieutenant!”

“You’ll just have to put Chef out of business if we ever get stuck there, Ensign.” People were giggling, and Malcolm was astonished to hear himself joining them. He’d expected this whole _dating Trip_ malarkey to be a test of nerve, yet he’d never felt more at ease in his life.

 _It must_ , he mused, faintly unnerved by his very serenity, _be love!_


	2. Walkin' My Baby Back Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first date's been negotiated safely - now what? A few decisions and a confession lie between Trip and the end of a perfect evening.

The comforting bubble of security remained in place through the journey to B Deck, even if discretion required the reluctant separation of hands when the lights went up. Only when they were deposited alone outside the turbolift did his belly tighten and the sweet, sticky sensation of confidence begin to dissipate.

If there was any consolation in mutual awkwardness Malcolm couldn’t feel it as Tucker cleared his throat. “Um,” he began, the soles of his trainers squealing as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “Tonight’s been good, Malcolm. _Really_ good.”

“It has.” That earned a tentative smile and, emboldened, Reed risked another sally. “You, ah, don’t have to walk me home. I won’t get lost.”

“What if I said I want to?”

That some folks thought Malcolm Reed cold fascinated Trip. How could anyone fail to see the emotions that chased through the Armoury Officer’s smoky grey-blue-grey eyes? Right now they were silver with relief and happiness, more expressive by far than the quirked half-smile that barely kissed one corner of his fine-drawn mouth. “Then I’d be glad of your company, kind sir,” Malcolm murmured, offering his hand. 

He couldn’t quite believe how eagerly Trip seized it. “You had a good time?” the blond asked.

“A very good time, but why wouldn’t I? Unless you’re quibbling over a few microns of extra power during weapons upgrades I always enjoy spending time with you. It was daft of me to be nervous.”

“You were jumpy too, huh?” He had to be relaxed to have let that slip; Rule One of being a Reed (and being a Reed entailed a lot of rules) seemed to be _Thou Shalt Not Show Weakness._

Weakness, Trip considered, being what most folks called emotion. Malcolm grimaced.

“Think hen on hot bricks,” he admitted. “I’d been pacing for twenty minutes when you arrived. Couldn’t keep still.”

“You should’ve commed. I was just starin’ at the chronometer.” Coming to a reluctant stop outside the younger man’s door Tucker wet his lips, jolted by an awareness of how closely his nervous gesture was being observed. “That mean you’d do it again sometime?”

It was Malcolm’s turn to shuffle, ribbons of heat chasing up his neck. “A- _hem_! Well, you know this senior staff dinner party Hoshi’s planning for Saturday? I was rather hoping you might come with me.”

“You got yourself a date, Mister Reed.” The phrase itself between buddies might be jovial but Tucker’s tender tone ensured it was deadly serious. He lifted their joined hands toward his lips, pausing just shy so his next words fanned out, each syllable an individual caress of the brunet’s knuckles. “Now, I just got one more question, and I guess you prob’ly know what it is.”

“It’s not as if I’ve not been pondering whether it’s proper form to offer a nightcap on the first date,” Mischief chased Reed’s lingering hesitancy away. “Personally, I’d say a kiss is quite acceptable – knowing the evening’s been adjudged a success and there’s a second date in the offing…”

“Yeah.” Bright as a Florida sunrise was the giddy smile that broke over Trip’s even features. “I’m likin’ the sound of that. Goodnight, darlin’.”

“Goodnight.” The word held a finality that was out of place. This didn’t feel…

Trip dropped his hand and leaned in. Suddenly Malcolm didn’t care what the hell anything felt like.

It was awkward at first – straight nose and snub bumped, breaking their owners apart with a mutually embarrassed huff – but both were quick studies and at the second attempt their mouths melded nicely, lips soft and pliant, hands releasing to roam down strong, straight backs as shyness receded and a languid, almost innocent pleasure began to rise. As if a cork had been popped the need Trip had sensed building all night surged up from his toes, sweeping away anxiety and restraint, leaving just the taste (sweeter than his acid tongue would suggest) and the feel (so soft, the complete opposite of his prickly military persona) of Malcolm Reed all around him.

“Mmmm, maybe I should reconsider my position on that nightcap.” A little bleary, Malcolm drew back just before oxygen deprivation could kick in and spoil the moment. “Trip? You okay?”

“I think so.” The tip of his tongue ran around lips puffy and tender, still tingling with remembered pressure. Like a man in a trance Tucker brought up a hand to rub along his chin, aware of a new sensation, a ticklishness he’d never experienced before. “I, uh, well, that’s the first time I’ve ever kissed a guy, and – is that _stubble rash_?”

His daze was smashed by the metaphorical clang of jaw on deck. “You’ve never – I mean - _honestly_?” Reed stammered, blushing to roots of his hair. “Christ Trip, I’m sorry! If I’d known…”

_Damn, damn, damn!_

“Hey, I wanted it!” Already he could see Malcolm retreating, the hard shell of _Lieutenant Reed_ forming like permafrost over the warm, funny, brilliant man he’d been trying to court for months. “I’ve never kissed another guy before – always gone with women – but that doesn’t mean I’ve not been attracted. I’m not struggling with some great revelation about myself here. I’ve known for years I’m probably bi.”

“But you’ve never done anything about it?” This, the Armoury Officer decided, was categorically not a conversation for the middle of a dormitory corridor. Before Trip could think better of it and bolt, he tapped in his code and bodily hauled the bigger man into his quarters. 

“I’ve never cared enough about a guy, that’s all.” It wasn’t, Tucker assured himself, that he’d been scared, and the alleged _stigma_ of homosexuality was something he only knew about from history class. “It’s just different with you.”

“I’m flattered.” More than that, but positioning himself on the edge of his desk chair facing the wide-eyed engineer slouched on the bed, Reed didn’t dare contemplate his own feelings. “I just wish – damn it, Trip! Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“Maybe ‘cause I knew you’d over-react, y’ ever think of that?” Nerves and embarrassment were a potent mix, and their effect on the Tucker temper was notorious. Trip balled both hands into fists, reliant on the small sting of nail into palm to keep him focussed. “And okay, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll say it – I’m all new to this guy thing, and I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Trust Malcolm to start an interrogation!

“Of screwin’ up. Of doin’ something wrong, makin’ you uncomfortable, I don’t know!” Pounding the mattress probably wasn’t helping make the right impression but that was the least of Tucker’s concerns as he met an implacable steel stare head-on. “I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before, Malcolm and that’s scarin’ me too. I like you a lot. I’ve liked holding your hand, and I want to do it again. That kissin’ thing too if you’ll let me, knowin’ I’m kind of a virgin and all…”

“Oh, Trip!” He hadn’t expected the earnestness but its effect on Malcolm’s heart was wholly predictable. It flipped over and he launched himself across the room to collapse at Tucker’s side. “I’m sorry. It was foolish of me not to think… and I’d quite like to try that _kissin’ thang_ again too, if you’re sure you can handle the stubble rash.”

“I’m willing if you are.” Gentle hands, leathery and callused, unmistakably masculine, cupped his face, rubbing in search of a day’s evidence of facial hair. “But you’ve got to give me a hand here, Malcolm. Let me know if I’m doin’ this right.”

“Oh, you’ve done fine so far.” Slowly, giving his man time to reconsider Reed wove dextrous fingers into the short hair at Tucker’s nape, drawing the blond head down until their mouths could meet. 

There was no uncertainty this time, and the Southerner discovered that Malcolm kissed the same way he did everything else deemed worthy of his attention: thoroughly, with complete focus and dedication, absolutely determined not to miss the smallest detail. With his arms wrapped around the Englishman’s lean frame and his lips coming apart at the first delicate flick of a tongue between them, the superior officer could only commend such unremitting diligence.

He did that best way he knew, moaning into that ravishing mouth and pulling the glorious body closer, anchoring one hand in Reed’s thick, silky hair. Fire smouldered in his belly but it was subtle, utterly gratifying of itself, like the slow, smoky burn of a fine liquor. Something to be savoured, not gulped down in the rush to try another, showier cocktail.

“You’re doing splendidly, Trip.” Malcolm had to be the practical one he mused, still aware of a pleasant internal warmth while reality clicked reluctantly into place around him. Equally unwilling to acknowledge it, Reed rested his head against the burlier man’s shoulder, long, moist huffs of breath caressing his neck with every small exhalation. Tucker tightened his hold.

“Splendidly, huh?” Such a British choice of phrase. So perfectly Malcolm.

And Malcolm, more than ever, seemed pretty damn perfect all round. Suddenly it was imperative he should know that. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time. I’m kind of wondering what’s been holding me back.”

“Other than fear of mortally offending the man with all the guns?” Star-bright eyes twinkled at him, and Trip snickered.

“Apart from that,” he admitted, allowing himself to be hauled upright with just the right degree of unwillingness. “I’d better go. It’s late, and we’re on Alpha tomorrow.”

“Breakfast, 0800?” 

“Whoever’s there first grabs the table.”

“That’ll be me then, Mister Tucker.” Laughing, Reed escorted his protesting friend to the door. Tucker hesitated, the grind of cogs in his brain almost audible for a moment before he shrugged, ducked and planted a hard, close-mouthed kiss against the lieutenant’s pout.

When he looked back from the turn of the corridor Reed was still in the doorway, fingertips against his lips and a dazed, wondering expression on his handsome face.


	3. Hoshi's Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the second date, in the company of their closest friends. The trouble is, nobody else knows yet. Can Trip keep it that way under extreme duress?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming a popular British confectionery treat will still be available in the 22nd century...

Anticipation bubbling like champagne through his bloodstream Tucker opened the door and grinned at the man adopting his classic _at ease_ stance in the hall. “Hey, Malcolm,” he said casually, stepping aside to invite the brunet in. Hands still tucked firmly behind his back, Reed slipped through.

Immediately there was a barrier between them and prying eyes the impassive façade dissolved. “God you look gorgeous, Trip!” he breathed, surveying the taller man in a hot, sweeping glance. “There should be a law against how well every bloody shade of blue suits you!”

“You’re lookin’ awfully good yourself, Mister Reed.” Crisp black slacks, a fitted, high-necked black sweater and a well-cut blazer with silver embossed buttons; all in all, Tucker decided, enough to earn a recommendation from him that Starfleet change its basic uniform colour tomorrow. “But – whatcha hidin’, Malcolm? You’ve got me a present?”

With an air of bashful triumph the Englishman produced a bright box from behind his back. “ _Roses_?” Trip read, frowning. Malcolm shrugged.

“Well I wasn’t going to traipse around the ship carrying flowers, so it seemed the next best thing. They’re chocolates.” 

“Thank you.” Slightly stunned by the unexpected romance of the gesture Tucker dipped to run his smile across his date’s cheek. “And I promise not to tell Hoshi.”

“If she knew how much chocolate I bought last time we were at Jupiter Station, all the deadlocks in Starfleet wouldn’t protect my quarters.” Turning his head slightly enabled Malcolm to bring their lips into momentary contact, sending shivers down to both men’s toes. “You never know when we’re going to get chance to resupply, and that resequenced stuff doesn’t taste the same.”

“’specially after Chef’s got his hands on it.” They were delaying, Trip knew. “We’d better go.”

“They’ll be expecting us.” Somehow Malcolm managed to look like the sexiest bastard in the quadrant and a truculent schoolboy all in one. Trip sighed.

“How about somethin’ sweet to keep us going ‘til later?” he suggested, dissatisfied by the throatiness of the words until he registered their effect on his companion. Malcolm’s smoky eyes darkened appreciably. His throat convulsed.

Pushed up onto his toes he met Trip halfway as the blond stooped for a full, open-mouthed smooch.

“Much better than chocolate,” Malcolm murmured, tracing the full curve of the Tucker smile when they came apart. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell Hoshi.”

He was adorable when he got smart. Just as well, Trip decided, since he was too damn smart so often. “I’m not sharing _that_ ,” he promised, pulse jump-started by the comet-flare of happiness across the younger man’s face. “You think we’re okay then? The invitation said _smart-casual_ an' I’m damned if I know what that means.”

“I’ve always assumed jacket, no tie, but there’s only one way to find out.” Thrusting out a hand, Reed grinned crookedly. “And as Hoshi also specified _no Hawaiian shirts_ , I think you’ll just about get away with it.”

“Someone should bust that woman right back t’ crewman for insubordination.”

“Or promote her for evidence of exemplary taste.” Broad, blunt fingers worked into a tight lace with his, and Malcolm couldn’t stop himself staring. “We’re never going to get there at this rate, are we?” he said resignedly.

The implication – that he wasn’t alone in dreaming of a quiet night in – melted what little was left of Trip Tucker’s heart. “Sooner we’re there, the sooner you can walk me home again,” he suggested hopefully. Reed carried their joined hands to his lips.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Mistah Tuckah.”

*

“Come on, you’re late!” Their hostess was hanging out of the mess hall door, her dark eyes alight with excitement. They widened as she took in the two men’s attire, ruby-glossed lips parted in a generous smile. “And I’m glad the message got through.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve buried my gaudy shirts at the bottom of the laundry just to avoid temptation,” Malcolm drawled, bowing from the waist as he kissed her hand. Hoshi threw an exaggerated simper Trip’s way.

“I’ll be expecting this kind of chivalry on the bridge in future, Lieutenant.”

“Feed me well enough, Ensign, and you might get it. Good evening, Captain. Subcommander. Doctor. Travis.”

“Hey, Malcolm. Looking good.”

“Thank you, sir. One must make an effort for the best shot in the communications section.”

“Now aren’t you gonna compliment me too, Cap’n?” Who was this relaxed, mischievous stranger and what had he done with Malcolm Reed?

In truth Trip knew that witty, charming soul had always lurked beneath the uptight mask of an old-school British officer. He’d prided himself on being the first aboard to see it; urged Malcolm to unbend, exultant when, tentative, the man had tried. He had no right to resent those brief, glittering smiles being bestowed on anyone but himself. 

“Sorry Trip, I assumed Hoshi chose for you.” Two seats were vacant facing Travis and Phlox and at Reed’s quizzical sideways look Tucker steered himself toward the farthest. The pretty Japanese giggled.

“And I was going to thank _you_ , Captain,” she cooed. “Now everybody eat. We only have two hours before I have to hand the galley back, and if it’s not exactly how Chef left it I’ll never get my grandmother’s recipe book back.”

“So that’s how you persuaded him!” Travis banged the table so hard a dozen dishes danced. “You let him borrow your family cook books!”

“He’s not familiar with Japanese cuisine. I promised to help if he gave me one afternoon alone here.”

“He must be real keen to learn.” There wasn’t a lot of space, but that suited Trip fine. Willing his chair not to squeal, he shifted his weight left.

T’Pol’s eyebrow twitched. So did Reed’s.

Tucker knew which one it was had a direct connection to his dick. He sighed. Stretched. Inched himself left again.

“Japanese, Thai, Malaysian... you’re spoiling us.” Notoriously uninterested in his regular meals Malcolm eyed the steaming assortment of bowls and platters on display with frank reverence. “There’s enough for the whole crew!”

“I figured I might never get the chance again.” Sliding into her place at one end of the table Hoshi bestowed a benevolent smile on her guests. “Now, this isn’t formal. Everybody help yourselves. There’s plenty of everything, even with Travis around.”

“Hey!” Stopped in the act of reaching for the chicken noodle broth the boomer cast his hostess a truculent stare. “I’m a growing boy, you know!”

“Do we ever.” Handing around the sushi platter Archer winked broadly. “I think I should warn you, I’m remembering an ancient Earth custom called the job-swap. Anyone know if Chef’s good at languages?”

“Sure, if you count a dozen different ways of gruntin’ as linguistics.” He had no idea what most of the foodstuffs passed his way were but Trip didn’t care. Malcolm was piling his plate with an enthusiasm the match of the helmsman’s and if Hoshi could guarantee the stubborn Brit would eat properly once in a while Tucker wanted her transferred to a new station indefinitely. 

T’Pol, meanwhile, was regarding several strongly scented morsels being offered with the closest a Vulcan dared come to outright fear. “I’d recommend the boiled rice, Subcommander,” Malcolm volunteered through the steam rising from his thick and spicy bowl of stew. “It’s probably the closest South East Asian food comes to Vulcan cuisine I think. Hoshi…”

“Thank you, Lieutenant, I will take your advice.”

“Really Subcommander, if you were only a little more _adventurous_ you’d find the Vulcan digestive tract is a highly _adaptable_ organ!” Tucker hoped the Denobulan one was too given the diversity of aromas rising from Phlox’s overflowing platter. He nudged his neighbour with his knee, silently guiding Malcolm’s attention the physician’s way. 

The Englishman’s impassivity barely faltered. Tucker on the other hand almost hit the ceiling when a slim hand dipped beneath the white tablecloth to squeeze his thigh. Slowly he moved his own to cover it.

Reed’s mouth twitched. Under cover of T’Pol’s sedate dismissal of concern for her internal workings, Trip let out a silent sigh of relief. _Okay, so, maybe we don’t have to be proper in company after all!_

*

Before long he was pondering the wisdom of his Granny Johnson, whose mantra had always been be careful what you wish for, ‘cause you just might get it.

First off, Malcolm removed his jacket, hanging it over the back of his chair. Trip was still admiring the view when, all innocence, Reed offered to take his too. 

“That’s mighty kind of you, Lieutenant.” Tucker made a point of shucking straight out of the garment, letting it fall into the Englishman’s cupped hands. He smirked, the expression sticking when, very deliberately, Malcolm brushed knuckles against his shoulder blades under its cover.

Then he started up a game of footsie. In the presence of their commanding officer, Lieutenant Stiff-Upper-Lip gently nudged his date’s foot midway through an anecdote about Eagle Scouting in forests of Borneo. And while Trip tried not to choke on his tangy fish soup, the aggravating Brit didn’t miss a beat.

“Hell Malcolm, I’m amazed you ever got any merit badges sneaking beer into camp like that!” Jonathan Archer mopped eyes streaming as much from mirth as from the pungency of his Thai chicken curry. “Behaviour like that would’ve gotten a guy thrown out of my company!”

“Only if you got caught, Captain.” Trip’s toe grazed his ankle. Malcolm bit his lip. “And of course, if you’re careful…”

“I’ll be watching next time we’re back at Jupiter Station, Lieutenant,” Archer warned, jade eyes dancing. Reed dipped his dark head.

“I’ll keep it under advisement, sir. Unless there’s anything specific you’d like smuggling aboard?”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” The two men raised their glasses in perfect synchronicity just as the younger’s sole ran lightly across his neighbour’s toes. Trip took a hearty gulp from the nearest wineglass, not much caring if it was his own or not.

On the pretext of salvaging a scrap form the floor before Porthos could pounce, he gave the brunet’s thigh a firm pinch. Malcolm flinched. “You okay?” Archer asked solicitously.

“Fine, sir. How much chilli did you put in this, Hoshi? I thought I was used to spicy food…”

“It’s not so bad – is it?” Cautious, their chef dipped the end of a clean spoon into the creamy pork and peanut concoction. “Seems fine to me.”

“I must’ve got a whole one.” Sparks flashed in Reed’s eyes, deadly accurate as one of his phase cannon blasts. Tucker grinned.

“Sauce for the goose, Lieutenant,” he breathed as he scooched closer, his interest in the dish completely feigned. “Lemme try.”

A mouthful later he was coughing theatrically, demanding water while Reed, ever the dutiful subordinate, leaped up to pound him helpfully on the back. “T’Pol, don’t go touchin’ that thing,” he spluttered at length, when attention had been diverted safely away from a pale-skinned Englishman’s blushes. “It’s hotter than a beetle’s ass in a bonfire!”

“I wouldn’t have said it was _that_ hot,” Malcolm soothed the affronted cook, giving Trip’s back one last, lingering rub before resuming his seat. The Southerner flashed him a filthy grin.

“There’s hotter stuff in the room,” he drawled. 

“Indeed,” Reed affirmed, a little huskier than usual. Under the table Tucker gripped his hand.

“How long before we can get out of here?” he hissed, taking shameless advantage of the smaller man’s stretch to reach the nearest open wine bottle. Chocolate lashes dipped to kiss perfectly carved cheekbones.

_Lucky lashes!_

Trip glugged gratefully at the refill gracefully offered for his half-empty glass. “And that’s as much as you’re having, given how _delicate_ your engines have been feeling lately,” Reed informed him, concealing a mischievous shooting-star smile with a subtle twist of the hip. “If you don’t mind, Hoshi, I’d better see this appalling lush home – unless you need a hand in the galley?”

For a split second Trip's heart lurched, but exactly as their expert strategist anticipated Malcolm’s gallantry was waved off with assurances that it was fine, all the work was done, and anyway Chef hadn’t given permission for anyone else to enter his territory. He gulped his drink in two mouthfuls, forcing his attention onto T’Pol’s attempts to combine total panic with Vulcan imperturbability as she considered the assortment of dishes Jon was still solicitously trying to tempt her with.

Anything was safer than looking at the man he ached for, all glittering eyes, secret smiles and the promise of pleasures untold back on B Deck!


	4. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's that part of the evening Malcolm's been longing for. What's the old saying? Trip knows it all too well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back after an unexpectedly long hiatus, the end of the boys' second sort-of-secret date. Thanks for your kind comments - hopefully it won't take me as long to update next time!

“God, that was agony!” Sniggering like a guilty schoolboy Reed grabbed his companion’s hand and all but dragged him through the hallways to Tucker’s door. The blond snorted.

“Don’t give me that, Malcolm! You were lovin’ every minute, tormenting me in front of everybody.”

A top lip quirked and Tucker felt the now-customary sharp tug inside his pants. “Telling me you weren’t, Commander?” the Englishman purred. Trip cleared his throat. Hard.

“Nope,” he said, aware of a small shimmer of amazement that he could make Malcolm Reed laugh out loud this way. “Um, you wanna come in for coffee or somethin’?”

“The _somethin’_ I have in mind wouldn’t be proper in the corridor, if you’re up for it.” Gaze riveted on his companion’s full lips, Reed didn’t have to clarify further. Trip swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “Ah'm game.”

Malcolm’s shy smile flipped his innards and it was all he could do to key in his code and step aside, ushering the smaller man in before him. All the anxiety he’d though behind them resurfaced in a single step, slamming Trip hard in the chest.

Then Malcolm kissed him and it melted clean away.

Nothing had ever felt more right. Stumbling over an abandoned sneaker Trip tugged his boyfriend blindly toward the corner of the room occupied by his bunk, letting his knees crumple and his weight drag the slighter man down. Reed’s startled yelp reverberated satisfyingly around the cavern of his mouth and he gripped the man tighter, drinking the sensation down.

Every little movement triggered a minor explosion someplace, even through layers of expensive cloth. Hands roved, hot breath fanning faces when the necessity of refilling overtaxed lungs forced their mouths apart. Deep in his guts Trip felt it uncoiling like a dozen angry snakes, a sensation he was discovering he’d never fully understood before.

Desire.

It blazed back at him in eyes of molten platinum when Malcolm blinked, dazed by the intensity of his own needs. “Trip, stop!” he panted, the combination of panic, lingering pleasure and pure want in the words tinging Tucker’s world blood-red. “We can’t – oh, shit!”

“Easy, Malcolm.” When the younger man would have flown Tucker held him back with a gentle hand on the arm, the lack of restraining force enough of itself to calm the hyper-agitated lieutenant. “Weren’t you enjoyin’ it? I was!”

“God, yes!” The wariness of the hunted animal and the candour of a child. Being a sucker for kids and furry critters Trip wasn’t surprised the combination made mush of his heart. “But we shouldn’t – not yet. It’s so new…”

“You gonna make me keep mah hands t’ mahself for the first six dates or somethin’?” Deliberately broadening his accent, the Southerner went for his patented _shucks, ma’am_ face and Malcolm relaxed visibly, just a hint of cute, lopsided smile breaking out. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?” Trip murmured, tracing the tip of one finger from chiselled cheekbone to strong, well-set jaw. “And yes it’s a little different, you bein’ a guy and all, but you know what? I don’t care. When I’m alone with the person I most want to be alone with, this is what I do. I show ‘em.”

“I’m flattered.” Tentative, Malcolm lingered to taste the unfamiliar word. “And – oh, for fuck’s sake! I’ve spent the entire evening longing to get you back here and now look at me!”

“Oh, Malcolm!” So assured, the crisply competent officer; so vulnerable, the man kept hidden behind the rank pips. All Tucker’s baser instincts washed away under a surge of tenderness and he hefted the younger man onto his lap, gently ruffling already dishevelled dark hair. “We’ll go as slow as you want, but you’ve got to trust me on this. I want a relationship with you – romantic, emotional, physical, the whole kit an’ caboodle. I guess I’m kind of a virgin again but I know what I want, and it’s you.”

“Soppy bastard.”

Anyone else, Malcolm considered as the words slipped over his tongue, would be affronted. Not Trip. “That’s me,” the blond agreed good-naturedly. “But I’m serious, Mal. When you kiss me… hell, nobody’s ever made me feel like that, and I’ve done my share of kissing.”

“Your reputation rather precedes you there.” Awkwardness was no match for the sweet rain of Floridian compliments, and bashfully Reed planted a peck on the upturn of his lover’s adorable nose. “You’re so _calm_ about this, I almost think it’s why I’m in such a blue funk! When I first realised I was bi…”

“Like I keep saying; I think I’ve known for a while, just never been inspired.”

“Inspirational, am I?”

Tucker twisted his level features into a comic grimace. “Am I going to be incriminatin’ myself here?”

“Oh, I hope so.” Now they weren’t groping like a pair of horny teens Reed’s composure seemed to return and he favoured his companion with a cheeky grin. “I _do_ want you, Trip, please don’t doubt that. It’s just...”

“You don’t wanna scare me.” He doubted he’d ever been less apprehensive in his life but his beloved figured he should be, and there was no reasoning with Malcolm when he got stuck on a notion. Gently Trip leaned in, brushing his lips across Reed’s furrowed brow. “Now I don’t want to dent the ego of the most dangerous man in Starfleet, but – Malcolm, I love you. ‘Cept when you’re holdin’ a phase pistol – you’re a mean bastard with them, and you know it - you could never scare me.”

“I...” Speechless suited the smartest mouth on the ship. Familiar colour accentuated that perfect bone structure as Malcolm’s throat worked convulsively. “I love you too, Trip. P’raps I wouldn’t be so bloody paranoid about this all going pear-shaped if all I was after was a damn good shag!”

“I’m not objectin’, if that’s what you want.”

The hopeful note in the joke surprised them both. “Not yet, love,” Reed whispered, visibly startled by the instinctive endearment. “I wouldn’t bed a girl I cared about until I knew she was ready, and I’m certainly not going to take any chances with you.”

“But you’d let that girl tell you when she was ready, right?” Trip hinted, waiting for the Englishman’s nod. “Okay, then you’re gonna have to trust me the same way.”

“I’ll try, but they don’t call us The Disaster Twins for nothing.” Instinct told Malcolm things were getting too heavy and, miraculously, gave him the words to lighten them up. Trip’s sunny blue eyes danced and he dipped down again for a sweet, undemanding kiss. 

“See? We’ve gotta get together Malcolm. Nobody else’ll have us.”

“Oh I think most of the female contingent aboard would gladly _have_ you, Commander; one or two of the men too, if they’d thought it was a goer.”

“Likewise I’m sure, Lieutenant.” So, he wasn’t alone in finding the use of those damn ranks a turn-on. Malcolm’s eyes had darkened appreciably and there was the tip of that sweet-tart tongue, just slipping between well-kissed lips. “How 'bout dinner and the movie again Tuesday? I’ve checked the schedule and it’s one of the earlier Bonds.”

“I’d like that.” A third date. Trip could almost hear the click of calculation in that sharp British brain. “Civvies?”

“Yep.” Fewer layers of fabric between Malcolm and his hands. Trip liked that. “Why don’t I come pick you up tomorrow morning, walk down to the mess together for breakfast?”

“If you think I’m holding hands at the galley you’ve got another think coming.” Laughter skipping through every syllable Reed scrambled off the bed, waiting patiently for his friend to follow more slowly. “I do love you, Trip. Please don’t doubt it, however cautious I might be about showing it.”

“I might need a few of those kisses in private to keep me goin’, but I don’t expect a whole lot of PDA’s from you, Mal. That’s _Public Displays of Affection_ ,” he added when the fascinating little furrow between the Brit’s eyebrows began to deepen in confusion. “Pick you up at 0750?”

“I’ll be waiting.” Before Tucker could open the door Reed stretched up for one more melting lip-lock that left both men breathless. Then, before anything could be said to sully the moment, he turned on his heel and fled.


	5. Complicated Calculations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real Life intervenes. Someone gets the jitters. Nothing new there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not just Trip and Malcolm who've found real life getting in the way! Apologies for the delay in updating, and thank you for the kind and encouraging words!

_Bloody Suliban._ Vicious bunch of sadistic green imbeciles. Next time one of their snotty little cell ships uncloaked within a light year of Enterprise, he would personally arrange a small accident with the forward torpedo launchers before Captain Do-Good could open his gigantic flapping gob. Lord knew there was nobody else on board, up to and including that damned condescending Vulcan goddess, who’d be able to pin any firm evidence on him!

It had been, Malcolm conceded as he collapsed in a boneless heap on his unmade bunk, one hell of a week. From the first appearance of the “distressed” cell ship through to the all-out battle when Silik’s fleet hove into sight and on to the massive repair job left behind, he’d more or less given up on sleep and sustenance, surviving on little more than a shit and a snack as Madeleine, displaying the true nautical delicacy of their blood, would say. 

Yet he still found time, with starboard cannon about to fire itself through the saucer section, to maunder over a missed date.

His eyes felt gritty, the lids leaden. He needed food, soap and sleep, and yet deep down he wanted none of them. 

He wanted a cuddle.

Him. Malcolm Reed. And it was all that aggravating Yank’s fault.

“Tucker t’ Lieutenant Reed.”

“Bugger me backwards, is he psychic now? Go ahead, Commander.”

“I’m guessin’ you’re probably beat, but there’s a hot chocolate in the observation lounge with your name on it.” The raw, childlike hope in the words revived Reed faster than an icy shower. “It’s not exactly dinner and a classic Bond…”

“Two minutes. Keep it warm for me.”

“Yessir.”

He could still hear that laughing lilt as he bolted into the corridor. 

Enterprise felt deserted: a ghost ship, hanging in the soft amber glow of what Hoshi, being an odd sentimentalist, had christened the Golden Heart Nebula. The quiet lounge was bathed in its eerie radiance when Reed sauntered in, stopped in his tracks by its primal beauty. “Hey, Mal. You want a cookie with your drink?”

“No, thanks.” _Of course. He_ would _look heavenly in this light, wouldn’t he?_

Sprawled on one of the comfortable couches, a foaming glass of milk in hand Trip smiled lazily, evidently too exhausted to be a gentleman and rise for his date. “You look beat,” he observed, shuffling up instead by way of invitation. Grabbing his steaming mug from the stasis unit Malcolm accepted, crumpling into the crook of the engineer’s arm. 

“Would it be rude of me to say so do you?” he enquired between slurps of the rich, slightly malted drink. Gently dabbing a spot from his top lip, Tucker grinned.

“It’d be true, I guess,” he said cheerfully. “Missed you, darlin’.”

His mug might have held lightly pureed wormwood and it still would have tasted sweet under that guileless admission. “I missed you too,” Reed admitted, equally shy. “That’s one more black mark against Silik, buggering up our date!”

“It’s not fancy, but this works for me – if you’re okay?”

Inwardly damning propriety to hell Malcolm planted a kiss against the Southerner’s jaw. “More than okay,” he whispered.

He barely had time to set his mug aside before the effect he’d been aiming for was achieved. Strong arms engulfed him, plastering him from brow to thigh against the bigger man’s solid strength. Lips chilled from too much frothy milk descended on his and Malcolm buried his hands in Trip’s short hair: reaching for more, needing to be closer more than he needed another breath. Fireworks were erupting wherever Trip’s fingers happened to land and he undulated thoughtlessly, riding the half-forgotten waves of sensation that rolled through his body.

“’s good, Mal.” Tucker sounded pleasantly slurred when they broke apart, his breath a warming cascade over the tingle of a two-day beard growth. Reed felt his innards tighten another notch, the welcome pressure in his groin alleviating that he’d felt hammering inside his head for the last eight hours. He would have expressed his gratitude properly, given time.

But one kiss, it seemed, wasn’t enough. Trip dove in for another, deeper and harder, tongues twining and teeth scraping erotically. The banked embers of lust in Malcolm’s gut flared out of control.

He forgot the unlocked door and the shipmates, equally exhausted and enervated, who might burst through it any moment. Nothing mattered but the weight of the beautiful body against his, the wet flutter of tongue skimming the roof of his mouth. His limbs felt weighed down yet, paradoxically, he was lighter than air. 

He moaned, glorying in the wantonness of the sound and the way it rolled over Trip’s tongue back onto his. Blindly he clawed his lover, registering the soft texture of hair, the roughness of cloth and the coiled power of muscle beneath without conscious thought, overwhelmed by the totality of Trip Tucker in his arms, grinding against him as if the only thing he needed, the only thing in the universe that was real, was Malcolm Reed.

“’m hard, Malcolm.” No less overwhelmed, Tucker drew back to gaze into the Englishman’s flushed face. “God I’m so… tell me you’re feelin’ it too!”

“Oh, yes.” That lovely tight sensation, the sweet bubbling deep in his balls, swept over him and for once Reed knew no fear of drowning. Trip’s eyes, ebony with need, were all the anchor a man could desire. 

“C’n I – please darlin’, lemme touch you!”

The words burst out in a breathless rush, their meaning too vast for instant comprehension. Before it could hit home, Malcolm nodded.

In slow motion Trip’s hand eased between them, its heel coming to rest atop the prominent bulge in the lieutenant’s pants. They exhaled in unison, both fascinated by the instantaneous twitch of hyper-sensitised flesh. “Nice,” Tucker breathed, sliding his hand until the fingers could curve around Reed’s swollen shaft. “ _Real_ nice, Malcolm.”

Coherence was a step too far as his hips lifted, pressing the Brit completely into the other man’s grasp. “Hmmm,” he managed, fighting to keep his eyes open, needing to see to believe the Southerner’s rapt expression. “Mmmm.”

“You like?” Supremely confident of the answer Trip applied a degree more pressure, chuckling at the resultant bounce beneath too many layers of heavy-duty cloth. His own erection pulsed hard enough to make him moan. “Beautiful, Malcolm,” he whimpered, leaning in to crush the words against smile-parted lips. “You are so fuckin’ beautiful like this!”

Compliments achieved what caresses never could. They snapped Reed back, violently, to reality.

“Trip, stop!”

“Huh?” Utterly bemused the engineer didn’t try to stop him rocketing away, pacing the lounge with hands clasped tight behind his ramrod spine. “Wassup? I was enjoyin’ that!”

“We can’t – it’s too soon – only our third date and you can’t really call it that can you, we’re both knackered…”

“We got reason to be.” Anyone else, he was vaguely aware, would be yelling; demanding explanations for things Malcolm barely understood himself. Trip, more than half-hard and completely unabashed, just lay back and followed his every graceless move. “And maybe I’m gettin’ a bit hazy about this datin’ thang – whatever anybody says I don’t get a whole lot of practise out here – but where I come from, folks do what feels right at the time. You got a schedule I should know about?”

It was as near to a rebuke as the most generous of friends would come and it knifed to the bone. “If only it was that straightforward!” Malcolm groaned, burying his face in his hands as he collapsed just beyond touching range on the sofa’s arm. “I’m sorry, Trip! I was enjoying that a bit _too much_ , if you follow, but it’s all so new…”

“Not that again!” The complaint emerged on a snort of laughter that hit the lieutenant’s jaw like a Klingon’s right hook. “Malcolm if I’m uncomfortable with anything I’ll tell you, okay?”

“Fine, fine, but I was talking about me!”

“Really?” Instantly Tucker was contrite, leaning forward with hands outstretched. Before he could consider all the reasons why he shouldn’t, Malcolm grabbed them.

“Really,” he affirmed. “I’m not good at relationships, never have been. I’m all right at meaningless shags of course, but I couldn’t bear that with you. I’ve never felt like this, and it scares the living whatsit out of me.”

“Sounds like this is all new to both of us. That’s gotta be a good start.” The hands gripping his tightened in a squeeze that was somehow comradely and intimate at once and, emboldened, Reed closed the last gap, shuffling until his thigh connected with the blond’s. “We’re good together, Mal. This feels _right_. Maybe we’re makin’ it complicated, worrying about dates when we should just relax, kick back and enjoy it.”

The crease between the Englishman’s eyebrows deepened markedly and Tucker couldn’t resist the familiar urge to smooth it away. “We spend a lot of time together, don’t we?” he suggested, encouraged by the way the man arched into his lightest caress. “Breakfast, most lunches… hell, I’ve even blown the Cap’n off so we have dinner together three times a week and you know he hates entertaining T’Pol alone…”

“Are you saying we’ve been dating for ages?” Those cute furrows shifted under his fingertip. Trip shrugged.

“Maybe, if it’ll make you feel better,” he replied cheerfully, dipping to kiss the answering grin. “I held your hand in the turbolift headin’ for breakfast once. Does that make it a date?”

“Considering Phlox joined us I’m not sure how I’d feel about that.” Languorously stretching, Malcolm burrowed back under the arm over his shoulders. Trip grunted.

“’kay, so it’s only an official date when we’re alone,” he agreed. “Like that lunch Silik’s buddies interrupted.”

“Or replacing melted-down power relays yesterday.”

“Lieutenant Reed! Are you suggestin’ we had a date on duty?”

The mock horrified tone won an amiable cuff that sent Trip’s heart soaring, knowing the familiarity would be offered to no other. “I doubt the captain would approve,” Malcolm conceded, head cocked and lips pursed against the unfamiliar urge (when sober anyway) to giggle. “But… well, being cooped up with you in a dark maintenance shaft did have a certain _erotic appeal_.”

“No kiddin’.” His penis, just about quiescent again, jerked but with the rest of his body convulsed in amusement Trip could ignore it. “Jesus! All jammed up against you, bumpin’ every time one of us breathed too deep, and the smell of you…”

Malcolm pouted. Adorably. “Are you saying I stink, Mistah Tuckah?”

“I’m sayin’ that cologne of yours and the smell of your skin drives me crazy, Mister Reed.” That woody richness, the faint tang of soap, sweat and man made a heady mix of pure Malcolm-ness that turned his knees to water every time Trip caught an unexpected whiff. Practically clambering over the hot, tight body it clung to in an unlit metal tube had been an exercise in surviving Hell. “Sorry if you thought I was bein’ funny when we got out of there but forty minutes that close to you… I’m tellin’ you Malcolm, I needed a _very_ cold shower before reporting to the Ready Room!”

Reed frowned. Clasped his hands. If it hadn’t been for the glint of sheer devilment in his stormy eyes, Tucker might have thought his man was offended.

“Oh, I dealt with it the old-fashioned way myself,” the brunet drawled, releasing one hand to trail, seemingly aimless, across the American’s thigh. “I hobbled back to my quarters for a good, long wank.”

“Malcolm Reed!” Tucker’s startled yelp got lost somewhere in the Englishman’s peal of laughter. “You are full of surprises tonight! Really?”

“Really.” Sitting a little straighter, preening at the reaction he’d provoked Malcolm grinned, his attention drawn inexorably to the appendage most intrigued by his candour. “I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Saves water, too.”

“I’ll bet.” His voice had dropped to a husky whisper, smoky as the changeable grey eyes themselves, and suddenly Trip Tucker couldn’t see anything but their dazzling, dangerous glow. “Dammit, Malcolm! You’re drivin’ me crazy here!”

“Nice to know it’s mutual.” Teasing Trip was all well and good but it was having a definite effect in his own trouser department, the fabric of his uniform chafing in all the right - or wrong - places. Malcolm shifted, relieving the pressure for a moment at least. “I’d recommend my method tonight, by the way. It’s a bit late for us both to be blasting away with the showers.”

“Now that’s jus’ cruel.” A hand grazed his erection and momentarily Reed’s good intentions wavered but it seemed Trip had no intention of forcing the issue, fingers withdrawing as delicately as they arrived. “But I think we need to make us some rules here, Malcolm. You’re good at them, yeah?”

“You’re not.”

The engineer accepted the rebuke with a shrug. “Rule one: no pressure. We do what we want, _when_ we want, agreed?”

It was undeniably reasonable. “Agreed.”

“Two: we spend as much time together, just us, as we want off duty.”

“Three: no snogging on duty.”

“I knew you’d hafta bring that up.” Still, he was getting his own way with an ease he hadn’t anticipated. Likely that was down to the distraction Malcolm was experiencing in his nether regions, but Tuckers had no hereditary qualm over fighting dirty in a good cause. “Okay, I’ll live with it. Just no more stressin’ over what counts as a date and how many we’ve got to have before we hit second base, yeah?”

“I’m not sure what constitutes second base in your neck of the woods, but where I come from we’re probably past it already.” By way of confirmation Reed bestowed a light squeeze to his partner’s left bollock. Tucker gulped.

“Okay, third,” he croaked. Malcolm nodded, altogether too pleased with himself.

Trip didn’t mind a bit.


	6. Domestic Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No pressure. That's what he said. Now Trip has a chance to put that grand theory into practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and tooth-rotting - a little bit of sweetness between the boys.

Two nights later he decided smug was almost – almost – his favourite Malcolm mood. “Told you the Craig era was the last good one before the Bond franchise went downhill,” the Brit informed him, peeking over his shoulder to smirk at the man jammed between his body and the cabin wall. If he could have shrugged such a confined space, Trip would.

“Glad you’re enjoyin’ the show,” he replied, pressing the flat of his hand into his companion’s stomach. A small shiver, possibly amusement, maybe pleasure, rippled through the thickness of Reed’s chunky sweater.

“Very much,” he agreed, wiggling into the cradle of the bigger man’s thighs. “You comfortable? I happen to know those bulkheads are bloody murder on the back.”

“I’m fine.” It wasn’t the most relaxing physical position, slightly on one hip, backside butting an unyielding bulkhead but with Malcolm nestled against him, dark hair tickling his nose and pert butt warming his genitalia, Trip wasn’t about to complain. One hand on the Englishman’s belly, the other wandering lazily over hip and thigh, he was vaguely aware of the position’s sexual potential yet oddly disconnected from it. Getting horny would feel wrong, and this – this felt incredibly _right_.

“You?” he asked. Rich chocolatey hair caressed his chin as Reed’s head shifted. Neither man had spoken much since the movie had begun playing on the big screen (borrowed from the captain’s quarters – he’d have to suffer an evening’s water polo as payback but it was worth it to get the explosions on an appropriate scale) but even Trip hadn’t felt the need to fill the extended silences. He felt loose; liquid inside, warmed by a kind of post-coital contentment without the mess and effort of actually having to come. Just lying together, holding his love close enough to feel the man’s slow, steady breathing… it made him, Trip discovered, happy.

“Mmmm.” He couldn’t, Malcolm discovered, be arsed with eloquence. “’s nice.”

_Nice_. Such an inoffensive little word; one of those that, depending on tone, Malcolm could endow with a dozen meanings. This time, Tucker decided, it kind of fit.

No pressure. No frisson of exquisite eroticism to detract from the purity of the moment. Just two men in love, content to be together. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly, tightening his hold on the lean form against him a little. “I like nice, Mal. Nice is…”

“Nice?”

“Smartass.” Even dropping a kiss into the other man’s hair didn’t feel anything but natural, an extension of their comfort with each other. “You want popcorn? Beer?”

“Not if it means moving.” An especially impressive explosion on screen diverted him briefly and Malcolm hissed his appreciation. “Do you want…”

“Just bein’ a good host darlin’. I’m okay if you are.” The endearment slipped out before Tucker could stop it. 

“You’re a bloody marvellous host, but – well, you could hug me a bit tighter if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Aww, if you’re gettin’ scared by the big bangs, Mal…”

“Now who’s being the smart-arse?” Neatly Reed flipped himself around, crystalline gaze landing plumb level with summery blue. “I wasn’t sure we could manage this, you know.”

To his great relief Trip didn’t play the dumb hick. “Being close without rippin’ each other’s shirts off? Hell, I’m game if you are!” he exclaimed. Malcolm snorted.

“Oddly enough, I’m not. I’ve never actually cuddled before and it’s…”

“Nice?”

“I was going to say addictive, but never mind. I’m comfortable just having your arm around me, and I’ve never liked casual contact before.”

“It must be love, Mal.”

The joke elicited a long pause, then a brilliant smile. “I think it may be, yes,” Malcolm agreed slowly. “But I wouldn’t really know; I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love before.”

Tears stung like grit behind his eyelids, but Trip blinked them away. Even soft and snuggling, Malcolm Reed wasn’t the man to get mushy with – not until he’d been frisked for concealed weaponry anyway. “I’ve never felt like this either,” he confessed huskily. “I wondered at first if it’s because you’re a man and we’re kind of on a level, but it’s more than that. It’s like we’re connected. Like we…”

Maybe he’d been wrong about mushy because Malcolm’s changeable eyes took on a soft shimmer he’d never seen before as the meaning of his declaration sank in. “I’m glad it’s not just me then,” the younger man answered, not quite reaching the glibness he was clearly aiming for. “Ahem! But I do think somebody’s onto us. Hoshi gave you a very _odd_ look when you shouted me in the mess.”

Tucker was pretty sure he must be blushing. “It’s those good ears she’s always talkin’ about,” he muttered, trying not to hang his head. “I’m sorry Malcolm. I jus’ can’t help those great big sad sighs when you walk out of the room.”

“That’s a relief, I thought she might’ve spotted me drooling over your bum.” The armoury officer was calmer about the prospect of public disclosure than Trip had dared imagine but then this was Hoshi. Discreet, compassionate, and better aware than anyone else on board of Lieutenant Reed’s record-breaking levels of accuracy with any weapon you’d care to mention. “Does it bother you?”

“Always thought that was gonna be my line.” This was getting serious. Time, Tucker decided, to kill the background noise. Even mid-bang the freeze of the screen didn’t register with the Englishman. Malcolm nipped his bottom lip.

“Not as much as I’d have expected, actually. It’s a small ship. Someone’s going to notice and I’m not intending to sneak around as if we’re something to be ashamed of. Trip, what are you making that _appalling_ racket for? You sound like my granny’s tomcat with his tail in the fire!”

“Sorry.” Maybe whooping right in a man’s face wasn’t the most romantic gesture but Tucker couldn’t stop himself. “Hell there’s times I want to shout from the saucer that I’m in love with the most amazing man in the quadrant, then I remember about discretion being the better part of… whatever the hell it is. You’re the most dangerous man in Starfleet. Hey I’ve read it in magazines, it must be true! I’d never do anything to embarrass you, Malcolm. You know that, yeah?”

Penetrating as his strategic assessments often were, Tucker had long been enthralled by the naïveté that coloured the Englishman’s personal judgements. “You’re not bothered that people see you in a gay relationship?” Reed stammered.

“Dammit, Malcolm!” No matter how many times he said it Trip figured the stubborn donkey still wasn’t going to let that basic fact seep through his ironclad skull. “What century are you living in? Nobody gives a fuck! No, no, wait. _I_ get it!”

He could feel the sinewy form in his arms tighten; almost hear the interlocking plates of Lieutenant Reed’s personalised hull plating snapping down. But where angels feared to tread you’d find a whole platoon of Tuckers charging, and Trip wouldn’t be at the back of the line. 

“It’s the attention that’s freakin’ you out, right? If one of us was seen with Hoshi or Hess it’d be a two-minute sensation, but us, together? Gee, that’s gotta make ‘em stare for a whole five minutes!”

“Oh, at least.” The words were amused, a fact that evidently surprised the speaker as much as his audience. “And I’m sorry. You’re right of course, I’m just not comfortable knowing people are gawking at me.”

“It’s okay.” Time, Trip figured, to inject a little flirty levity. “You wouldn’t be you without that ol’ British reserve thing going on, and I love you for what you are. _All_ of what you are.”

Right eyebrow and side of mouth quirked in perfect unison. “All?” Malcolm enquired, low and husky. Trip’s heart lurched.

“Body and soul, darlin’,” he confirmed, unaware he was leaning forward until sweet, pliant lips connected with his own.

Several minutes passed before either was able to speak sensibly again and somehow in the intervening period the solid bulkhead against Tucker’s spine had become a much more comfortable foam mattress, the slender length of his lover transformed into a wriggling blanket while Reed settled with his head pillowed on a strong Southern shoulder. “It’s funny,” Malcolm said at length. “When we’re like this everything feels so natural. Then I think of the others knowing and – bang! I panic even though rationally I know nobody can possibly object…”

“Then we need to be alone more often.” Deftly restarting the movie mid-bang Trip wrapped both arms around his man, whimsical imagination making them a barrier between Malcolm’s neuroses and the big, bad quadrant. Reed chuckled.

“I could live with that,” he said.


	7. The Challenge Of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shore leave. An opportunity for some quality time alone. With Malcolm around, that's never going to mean laying on the beach...

“You’re sure that’s not the whole party’s picnic, Chef?” Dubious, Reed prodded the large rucksack of victuals hefted onto the galley counter with his fist, wincing at its stubborn refusal to budge. “Or half a ton of bricks,” he added more quietly.

“Commander Tucker says you’re spending the day hiking, Lieutenant. You’ll be glad of a hearty lunch, given what I’ve heard about the temple trails.”

“I’ll be too exhausted to _reach_ the ruins if I have to lug this much weight around. Oi, Trip! If I find out I’m carrying a ton of pecan pie for you there’ll be trouble!”

People in the queue were snickering but to Tucker’s relief the Englishman seemed oblivious to the fond expressions on the faces of his subordinates. Nothing was likely to ruin the day faster than undue attention being noticed by a certain paranoid Armoury Officer whose pips, Trip was determined, were staying firmly in their box for the full twelve hours of sanctioned leave.

“It’s probably just the bottled water, Malcolm. You know what Phlox says about the humidity down there,” he said soothingly, hefting his own pack with a nonchalance guaranteed to make the slighter man bristle. “I’m guessing you’ve seen him about those allergy shots…”

“I couldn’t avoid the old fusspot.” Not, Reed conceded, that he didn’t appreciate the Denobulan’s consideration. If there was one thing guaranteed to spoil a perfect day exploring an alien wilderness with the man of his most erotic dreams, it would be a violent allergy attack. “Ready to go, Commander?”

“More than.” _Damn, I sound like a lovestruck fool!_

Nobody called him on it; they ignored Malcolm’s uncharacteristic smile too, most likely out of concern he’d have a knife tucked down inside his stout brown boot. Their shoulders bumping every second step the two officers worked their way through an excited holiday throng, reaching the launch bay in time to snag the last cramped seats on the first shuttle planetside.

Lieutenant Uptight might have cringed from the necessary intrusions into personal space but today Malcolm was in command and he squeezed into a narrow gap between Tucker and Crewman Dowling without a second thought. “Put your foot down, Travis,” he advised cordially when the young pilot showed signs of fussing over his pre-launch checks. “With your permission, sir.”

“You beat me to it, Mister Reed.” For once more garish than his chief engineer in a luminous orange shirt, Jonathan Archer grinned from co-pilot’s position. “Remember what Councillor Mok’ Tor told us about Halanji seasons, Travis? I’d like to see the place before it gets dark.”

“ _Now_ look what you’ve started!” Pouting theatrically over his shoulder Mayweather keyed a final command and the outer doors began their slow and stately parting. “Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride while some of us work, okay?”

“It’s your turn tomorrow, stop sulking!” Hoshi lunged forward to smack him between the shoulder blades. “Phlox and I can tell you how tough the trail really is – right, Doctor?”

Tucker’s heart, previously lighter than air, instantaneously filled with lead. “You’re not explorin’ the town, Hosh?” he asked, aware of a sudden tension in the lean frame at his side. The pretty Japanese laughed.

“There should be time to do both if the Vulcan database is right about the Lowland Trail,” she answered. Trip let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

“Is that the one the Halanji recommend for infants, Ensign?” Buttery smooth, Malcolm slanted a guileless smile her way and the linguist mock-bristled, the most acute observer of non-verbal communication aboard blissfully oblivious to the relief behind his teasing. “Hardly the _vigorous exercise in the open air_ you were encouraging us to take, Phlox.”

“One should always bear in mind one’s _limitations_ , Lieutenant.” Already rifling through his picnic the Denobulan spared his favourite patient a fond smile. “In other words, we’re not all mountain goats! Commander Tucker, you’re aware of the warnings the Halanji give regarding the Upland Path?”

“I’m in good hands, Doc.” The moment the words were out Trip wanted to snatch them back, but if he sounded like a helpless sap folks pretended not to notice. “Malcolm’s got a full first aid kit –and a phase pistol.”

“There’s been no evidence of any threat.” Archer – inevitably – got antsy at the mere mention of weapons. Malcolm shrugged.

“Purely a defensive measure, Captain - to stun the commander if his whingeing becomes unbearable,” he said placidly. Archer nodded.

“In that case, it’s a sensible precaution,” he deadpanned. Trip yelped.

“Whose side are you on here, Cap’n?” he groused, resigned to being the butt of everyone’s jokes for the rest of the trip. If it made Malcolm happy, he could take it.

*

Malcolm had never, in his experience, appeared happier. He struggled visibly to hold still while they disembarked, hooting farewells to their shipmates with uncharacteristic gusto. It was all Trip could do not to stare while he capered off in the direction of the short, steep trail on the edge of the city, a rocky path winding up heavily forested slopes toward the huge complex of ancient ruins overlooking a densely populated valley. “Hey, Malcolm? You sure those allergy meds haven’t caused some kind of weird reaction?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” At the foot of the trail Reed paused, regarding the severe gradient with a quizzical eye. “It’s just as well Hoshi’s taking the easy route! Some of those _minor obstructions_ the Vulcans mentioned look bigger than she is!”

“I’ll give you a hand up anytime you’re strugglin’, Mal.”

“And I’ll push you back down again if you’re not careful.” Momentary alarm shadowed his sharp features but when Trip laughed, it faded. “Shall we?”

Within ten minutes they hit the first major rockfall, made trickier to negotiate by the dappling of light and shade through the trees. “No wonder they say three hours!” Trip huffed, his feet slipping on the fine speckling of scree between the larger stones. Malcolm thrust back a hand and he grabbed it gratefully, surprised anew by the strength that sinewy form concealed. “If it’s all like this…”

“Apparently there are clear sections. They're just the really steep ones.” He wanted to wipe the perspiration from his brow, but that would mean releasing Trip’s hand. On balance, sweat dripping into the eyes was a minor inconvenience. Reed straightened up, frowning back down the short stretch already covered. “I’m glad there’s so much cover though. Without the shade, this’d be torture!”

“Without the shade and the company, maybe.” It was a corny line but it got him a shy smile and a blush. Tucker figured he could risk trying a few more like it.

“I admit, the company’s not bad.” Malcolm couldn’t stop himself peeking at their joined hands and Trip’s grip tightened in acknowledgement. “Shall we push on?”

“Yeah.” He could happily stand admiring that exact look of befuddled delight on Reed’s handsome face all day, but Tuckers were taught to know when they were beat. Malcolm wanted to see the ruins, so the ruins they would see.

He wondered fleetingly if the rest of his life was going to be predicated on what Malcolm wanted. Then spent fifteen minutes chuckling inside over what Jon was going to say when he found out. _Whipped? You don’t know the half of it, buddy!_

*

The obstructions along the route cleared as the pitch of the ascent kicked in, the laboured rasp of their breathing merged with the clear, fluting song of birds Trip tried not to envy as they swooped around an azure sky, untroubled by gradient or landslip. Neither man had much breath for casual conversation but despite his usual horror of silence the Southerner didn’t mind. Malcolm held his hand. He stretched up now and then to dash the sweat from Tucker’s furrowed brow, long fingers lingering a moment more than necessary, a faint, challenging smile ghosting across his face. Casual contact, of necessity limited aboard Enterprise, felt normal here. Trip could feel the stresses of the past months sliding away, taking the officers and leaving the men.

 _The men in love_ he amended, impulse taking over as he leaned down to kiss his companion.

“What was that for?” Reed didn’t seem fazed by the unexpected attention, merely puzzled by it. Trip shrugged. 

“Because I wanted to?” he suggested. Malcolm’s mouth twitched.

“That’s all right, then.” He said comfortably. “As long as you don’t start doing it in the middle of Engineering. Or the Armoury.”

“With all those guns around?” Flirting. He’d not expected a trademarked Proper British Officer to be good at it but with those long eyelashes and that pretty, pouty mouth (not to mention the smart tongue inside it) maybe Trip should have known better. “You’re the guy for livin’ dangerously, not me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t hurt you, Trip. Not unless you asked _very_ nicely.” Leaving an open-mouthed engineer in his wake Reed launched himself at the next steep slope, savouring the unusual sensation of looking down on Trip Tucker’s lovely face mottled with embarrassment and disbelief. “D’ you want a hand up?”

“I’m good.” Still, he accepted the proffered limb then raised it to his mouth when he reached its owner’s level. “You?”

“Never better. Stop for a drink?”

At this pace it’d be dark before they reached Temple Meadow, but with a playful Malcolm all to himself Trip figured he didn’t need the sights. This was already his best day’s shore leave ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not for the first time, a few random scribbles have got out of hand. What was one chapter has now been turned into two and as for the story as a whole... well, four parts have turned into heaven-only-knows. I blame the boys - they're resolutely refusing to do what I want :-)


	8. Sacred Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Trip's idea of a perfect vacation. Just as long as nobody comes along to spoil it...

When the path finally levelled out the sun was at its dazzling height. The woodland ended abruptly at the edge of a large expanse of waist-high grass sprinkled with oversized purple poppies that meandered to kiss the crumbling stones of vast tumbledown ruins perched hazardously on the edge of a sheer cliff, Tucker had to admit the sights were something special. “Wow!” he whistled. “Some view!”

“It certainly is.” A pace behind him Reed leaned back, taking in the broader panorama as a mere backdrop for his personal favourite sight in the galaxy. Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because when said sight turned around, there was a slight, disbelieving smile on his beestung lips. “Spectacular.”

“Lemme get my camera.” Dropping his backpack Tucker dragged out the infernal device and snapped three wide shots in quick succession before plunging into the meadow without a care, Malcolm noted with a shudder, for his footing. “C’mon, Mal! I need a picture of you in front of the temple to send to Mom, she’s going to love this!”

The Englishman froze with one foot hovering off the ground. “You want to send a photograph of me to your mother?” he demanded. Trip beamed.

“Why wouldn’t I? Mom always asks about you in her letters, even before she gets around to askin’ about the cap’n. Heck, she probably already knows I’m nuts about you, seeing how she tells everybody she knows her kids better than they think they know themselves!”

Clearly that wasn’t a potential embarrassment Mary Reed’s offspring had to worry about. “She won’t be _bothered_ that you’re involving yourself with another man?” Malcolm hissed, not before checking out the territory for potential eavesdroppers. Trip shrugged.

“Mom wants me to be happy,” he said simply, refusing to ponder the implications of that innocent confusion too closely. Captain and Mrs Reed didn’t know their son’s taste in company any better than in food and it hurt his heart to contemplate the kind of childhood they’d inflicted on the bright, sensitive little boy who still peeked out all tentative through an immaculately composed officer’s mask. “See where the walls are all falling down with the ivy growin’ over them? That’ll make a perfect frame, so scoot!”

“Aye, Commander!” With a mocking salute and an alacrity he didn’t often show to a certain superior’s orders Malcolm darted across the field and into position, where sunlight streamed through the shattered structure to envelope his lithe form. With the ease of a professional model he leaned against the collapsing remains, one hand behind his head. Then he spun away to lounge on a fallen block practically ravishing the camera with a smouldering gaze. “Too much?” he wondered.

“And not enough.” Most of the crew would fall down dead on the spot at the sight of their straight-laced security chief cavorting around an ancient alien monument like it was a Milan catwalk and the rest, Tucker figured, would likely pass out from plain old-fashioned lust. Nobody had the right to make a khaki t-shirt and a pair of battered jeans look that good. “Maybe I’ll keep these for myself. It wouldn’t be cool to have Momma hyperventilatin’ over my boyfriend.”

“Idiot.” The compliment scared Reed right back into his shell and he adopted his automatic defensive posture: what Starfleet and generations of British military men knew as _Atten-shun!_ With an inward sigh Trip clicked a couple of shots before the other man relaxed a fraction, his attention caught by a gaudy red and green bird twice the size of an Earth parrot. “Just look at that, Trip!” he exclaimed.

The only thing the American was looking at, through his viewfinder, was the delighted smile on his subject’s face. _That’s for you, Mom_ , he promised, pocketing the camera before Malcolm could protest the small intrusion. “Just as well Phlox isn’t here yet, he’d want us to capture it,” he drawled, sauntering across to rest against the largest chunk of standing masonry. “Hell of a place they got here.”

“Beautiful.” And virtually deserted, which Reed hadn’t been expecting of a civilisation’s self-proclaimed greatest architectural treasure. A couple sat on a broken-down buttress right on the edge of the cliff; voices floated, carrying on the damp, still air from the Lowland Trail that wound in easy stages up the eastern face of the massif. “I suppose it’d be sacrilege to set up a picnic on the remnants of the altar?”

“Probably.” A glance at Tucker’s watch confirmed the assessment already made by Reed’s stomach: back on board their relief teams would be halfway through lunch by now. “We could spread the blankets back there?” he suggested, wafting a hand in the general direction of the meadow. “As long as you’re confident about that allergy shot of Phlox’s…”

Malcolm eyed the undergrowth with interest. “I’m probably better protected from grass pollen than you are, Commander,” he observed mildly, plunging in where it grew thickest. “Come on! As long as we stay well back from the temple nobody’s going to give a stuff about me not using knife and fork on my chicken thighs!”

Nobody on Enterprise gave a damn anyway, but it was just one more relic of his childhood that Malcolm couldn’t use fingers on a piece of chicken or a sticky rib without apologising for it. Trip had found it kind of cute, until he realised why.

Stamping down the greenery at their chosen spot took a while, and by the time their small nest was prepared both men were soaked with sweat. “Isn’t it supposed to get cooler the higher you go?” Trip grumbled, tugging the clinging cotton of his beige t-shirt free with a sickly squelch. Malcolm gulped.

“Apparently not here,” he replied, colouring to the roots of his drooping hair. Trip narrowed his eyes, the puzzled question stopped dead on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh,” he said.

Dampness had darkened patches of Reed’s khaki tee to deep olive, outlining tantalising hints of abdomen and pecs. Sweat glistened on his arms, dribbling down powerful biceps to sinewy strong forearms. Trip wasn’t especially surprised to find breathing becoming a problem.

“Maybe we should lose the shirts?” he murmured.

Without a word Malcolm wrenched the garment over his head, exposing his upper body in all its alabaster glory. “Oh, my,” Trip breathed, amazed by the burst of eloquence.

He watched his fingers stretch out, tracing lines of muscle in wet, sticky air. “Can I…” he started helplessly. Reed’s head jerked.

The fact he wasn’t the only one having vocabulary issues boosting his confidence, Trip laid the flat of his hand on that enviable six-pack. “You got any idea how many times I’ve wanted to do this in Decon?” he rasped, acutely conscious of the muscles tightening against his palm. Malcolm managed a lopsided grin.

“Have you been ogling me, Commander?”

Tucker unleashed his cockiest smirk. “Yep.”

“If I hadn’t been so busy trying not to stare at you I might’ve noticed that.” The hand was beginning to slide upward, ruffling the fine trail of sable hair that arrowed beneath his waistband and Malcolm held his breath, focussing on the novel sensation of Trip Tucker’s unexpectedly tentative touch. The disciplined portion of his brain, smaller by the second, tracked the skip of each individual nerve ending. The wilder, more wanton side devoted itself entirely to enjoying the immediate aftershocks.

His knees were weakening. His eyelids felt heavy. Every breath seemed to come in slow motion, clearly audible over the repetitive thud of his heartbeat. Sweat, usually so distasteful, felt suddenly, sinfully appropriate. Even the profound silence around them felt somehow dense. 

Erotic.

The pad of a thumb struck his nipple. Malcolm gasped.

“Oooh, sensitive there, huh?” The minor revelation did wonders for Trip’s confidence and he pinched the responsive bud just tight enough to sting, earning an involuntary buck of the Brit’s whole body. 

_This_ he knew. Where the flat planes and unyielding lines of the masculine torso felt strange to fingers familiar with the sweep and curve of the female form that reaction – that uncontrolled spasm of pleasure unleashed from one tiny, rosy stud – he’d seen before, and that past experience he deployed with skilful relish.

Pinching and rolling he worked from one nipple to the other, savouring the effect each change of pressure had on Reed’s uneven breathing. Malcolm clawed his shoulders and pushed himself closer, his fingertips digging deep enough to mark before he gathered himself enough to retaliate and slip a hand between their bellies, index finger snagging Trip’s navel.

Tucker squeaked. The finger stilled.

“Mmmmm, found a hot spot!” Slurred and breathless, the edges frayed, that cut-glass accent was the sexiest thing Trip had ever heard and his vivid imagination roared ahead, already calculating how it might sound at the ultimate moment. Completely distracted, he was helpless when Malcolm hooked a foot around his ankle and brought both men crashing down to the springy turf in a tangle of limbs and plastered torsos. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” The word came out wheezy but who needed breath when there was so much serious kissing to be done? 

The high grass swayed around their hideaway. Another brightly coloured bird squawked as it swooped directly overhead. Lost in the sensations Malcolm Reed could unleash on his body, Trip noticed none of it. 

Urgency dissipated. Frenzied fingers softened, grasping hands splaying for longer, unhurried strokes that mapped unfamiliar planes and angles. Hot, heady kisses slowed until they were almost lapping each other’s faces, tantalising sensitive tongues. Time slowed. Trip wouldn’t have cared if it stopped altogether.

His erection didn’t subside but the pressure became a comfort: a promise in place of a demand. Malcolm arched beneath him, tranquil now, the fretful protests of previous encounters forgotten. Realisation came hazily, but only added to Trip’s state of bliss.

Which made the descent to reality when a very familiar voice nearby cried an excited “Oh wow!” followed, much closer, by a venomous _“Fuck!”_ all the more painful.

It took a moment to realise the obscenity was Reed’s, spat with the force of an old-fashioned percussion bullet as he squirmed free, one hand already groping for his shirt. More slowly Tucker climbed to his knees and retrieved his own, lead settling in his guts and lower. _Hoshi Sato, passion-killer._ Maybe they could laugh about it, someday.

The tall grass offered shelter just long enough to dress and finger-comb his hair but Malcolm’s conscience would permit no more, and by the time Phlox’s exuberant description of what his companion was seeing for herself had finished he was dragging himself upright, offering a much-too-merry hail while Trip deployed the checkered picnic blanket from his pack and scattered some food haphazardly around it, ripping off half a ham sandwich and taking a large bite from an apple (resequenced, Reed gathered from the soft gagging sound that followed) to complete the illusion. By the time their crewmates had blundered through the undergrowth, the dainty Japanese protesting at every step, both men had their disobedient physiques under control. If lips were a tad more swollen and cheeks a little more flushed than usual Trip figured even Phlox would blame nothing more than drenching humidity and a famously difficult hike.

“You should have come up the lowland way,” Hoshi reprimanded, snatching nearest bottle and helping herself to a lusty swig despite Tucker’s playful yelp. “Less than an hour, and it’s a completely level path. Why does anyone struggle over those rockfalls and crazy gradients?”

“Some of us prefer a challenge, Ensign.” The use of rank got a snort and an indelicate hand gesture that Phlox reflexively copied. Malcolm bit the inside of his cheek, focussed on the minor sting to control incipient hysteria. “Some of us wanted a bit of strenuous physical exercise.”

“That’s an excellent use of shore leave, Lieutenant, but I’m surprised you persuaded the commander to join you. I thought laying on a beach was his ideal vacation.”

“I can’t resist a challenge, Doc. Anyway somebody’s gotta keep an eye on Malcolm here. If anyone’s gonna get into a fight on an empty hillside…”

“It’ll be me trying to protect your arse, Commander.” Those cheese and pickle sandwiches looked good, but not as enticing as the object of Reed’s most immediate interest. _Memo to self; don’t draw attention to that scrumptious bum in company!_

Despite the inevitable distraction of said bum he still caught Hoshi’s muttered “Disaster Twins!” and matched Trip glare for glare until the linguist backed off with a girlish giggle, pretending to take cover behind Phlox. “Make yourself useful and take a picture of me and Malcolm by the ruins, Hosh,” Trip instructed, tossing his camera at her and wincing when she looked like missing the catch. “C’mon, Phlox’ll mind the food for us a minute won’t you, Doc?”

“What are you playing at?” Reed hissed, allowing himself to be rushed toward the lowering grey structure before their friends could respond. Trip flashed him a devilish grin. 

“Buyin’ us a little time, so play along!” More loudly he added, as he threw a buddyish arm over the smaller man’s shoulders: “Big smile, Lieutenant! This one’s for the end of mission scrapbook, you hear?”

“Bloody fool.” He couldn’t help but oblige as Trip hugged him tighter, pretending to prevent a potential getaway. Hoshi was laughing, Phlox clapping his big, leathery hands together at a display of good old-fashioned Commander Tucker japery, and all the while he, Malcolm Reed, was getting a sneaky snog in full view of…

_Half a dozen chortling crewmen just cresting the rise of the Lowland Trail. Bollocks!_

Clearly aware of their approach Trip hollered his thanks and retrieved the camera, brushing off Hoshi’s suggestion that they walk back down together. “Malcolm and I’ve only just started eating, you want Phlox lecturin’ about him missing another meal?” he chortled, energetically shooing a scowling armoury officer back toward their sheltered blanket. “We’ll finish up then follow you down – unless you want to wait?”

Hoshi hesitated, tempted, but before Tucker’s heart could sink past knee-level the cheery crow of over-excited Denoublan turned every Enterprise head. “And risk missing the Chimes of Halanj’Dee? Even Subcommander T’Pol admits they’re one of the great wonders of this system!”

“Sorry, guys. Looks like you’ll be eating alone.” They were getting along more smoothly but Reed suspected Hoshi would never let herself feel completely at ease with their Vulcan shipmate. Openness and restraint seldom gelled well, but when they did...

He subsided onto the blanket and stretched for a juicy chicken portion that offered the perfect excuse for a simple wave in farewell, stunned by the colossal realisation behind an innocuous thought. _When they do, they work beautifully. Like us._

“You not want that chicken?” He winced at the teasing, aware of how ridiculous he must look with his mouth hanging open and a succulent morsel ignored in his hand. Grinning, Tucker leaned in and took a bite. “Damn good,” he announced. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t go to waste, huh?”

“Get your own, you bloody gannet.” Affection and awe swirled until Reed couldn’t tease them apart. Tucker shrugged, snapped the meat from his fingers and tore off the juiciest morsel before dancing it across the Englishman’s grin. “Mmm,” Malcolm affirmed, swirling his tongue around those tempting digits before swallowing the offering. “Gorgeous.”

He ought to have known better than to encourage a Tucker. Gleeful, Trip rifled through their packs, picking out the most tempting items and ripping them into bite-sized chunks, sniffing and tasting for himself before presenting them to his partner. “Gotta make sure it’s all good enough for you, Mal,” he rumbled, voice noticeably hoarser as Reed’s tongue slithered down his pinkie. “Heck, and you say Chef doesn’t like you! He’s put in somethin’ special here…”

“Pineapple!” And it wasn’t resequenced, which confirmed Malcolm’s hunch that the bad-tempered hairy bastard from the galley had nothing to do with this particular treat. “I may have to transfer my affections, Commander.”

“Hey!” Trip’s single syllable shot up two octaves from sensual shock when that talented tongue followed a rivulet of juice all the way to the middle of his palm. “Aw, shit! You know that was me, don’tcha?”

“Nobody else would be that considerate.” Or as romantic, feeding him chunks of his favourite fruit with a big, sappy grin, delighted by his obvious pleasure. “Erm, there’s an extra slice of pecan pie in my pack if you want it – and some chocolate fudge brownies I hid from Hoshi.”

His second epiphany of the day Malcolm found rather less pleasurable than the first. “Bollocks! I’m turning into a romantic idiot, aren’t I?”

“’s called love, Lieutenant.” Gently Trip dabbed his sticky, pineapple-glossy lips before swooping in for a sweet smooch. “You got a problem with that?”

Malcolm cocked his head. Pulled his mouth into a tight, inadvertently kissable pout. “When you put it like that – no,” he conceded, breaking into a grin at the other man’s whoop. Deftly he muffled it with a chunk of chocolate cake, the breath freezing in his throat as he experienced the ticklish sensation he’d inflicted on his boyfriend for the first time. “Oh God!”

“Good, isn’t it?” 

“Marvellous.” Just to make sure, he offered a piece of pie. Trip licked his whole hand before taking it and Malcolm could have sworn each swipe of the tongue reached right down into his underwear. He wriggled, digging his buttocks into the forgiving turf. “I suppose we’ve got to pack up now?”

A full Floridian bottom lip stuck out. “Don’t wanna.”

For several seconds they stared at each other, seeking inspiration. Trip, inevitably, found it.

“Phlox wouldn’t want us doin’ too much exercise right after lunch. Why don’t we just lay down in the sun a while?”

Inactivity. All his adult life Reed had fought against it. Now, he simply couldn’t remember why.

“All right.” His rucksack covered with the blanket would work as a pillow and having set it to his liking Malcolm subsided, hands tucked behind his head. “Aren’t you going to join me?” he enquired, regarding the stricken Southerner standing beside him beneath downcast lashes. 

Trip gulped. “Um – yeah?” he squeaked, all but falling over his own feet in his rush. Moments later Reed found himself being carefully manipulated off his makeshift pillow and guided to a better one made of pure Florida muscle. Well-fed, sun-warmed and for the first time in his life head over heels in love, the armoury officer let his eyes drift shut and lassitude overwhelm him. 

This was categorically his favourite planet in the universe.


	9. Home Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring alien worlds is all well and good but what Trip really wants to investigate, he can find in the comfort of his own home...

They woke in time to hear the fabled chimes floating up from the valley with the added bonus of not being left temporarily deafened, a fact which only increased the shrieked dissatisfaction of a certain communications officer on the journey home and offered ample scope for teasing both her and the impassive science officer held personally responsible in weeks to come. 

Usually that would have made Trip’s day.

Not even the prospect of ruffling Vulcan feathers, he discovered, could be sweeter than waking with Malcolm nuzzling the side of his neck, all mussed and hazy, boyishly reluctant to acknowledge duty’s magnetic pull. He’d have the hide off of anyone who dared call him on it but straight from sleep the tough-as-teak armoury officer was a certifiable cutie.

And the chief engineer, Tucker admitted while gazing into the Englishman’s sea-grey eyes over dinner in the farthest corner of the mess hall, was a lost cause. 

“Trip?”

“Yeah?”

“Have I got sauce on my chin?” That furrow forming between his brows, Malcolm dabbed vaguely at his face. Trip squinted.

“Not that I can see. Why?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Am I?” Well he couldn’t be blamed for that! “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” The words were muffled, mumbled into Reed’s napkin. “I was rather enjoying it, but I _think_ we’re attracting attention.”

“We’re senior officers, Malcolm. We’re always gonna get noticed.” 

As if someone had flicked a switch inside his skull Tucker’s brain was flooded with sudden light. “ _Riigght_. You’re getting antsy thinking folks are watchin’ the Chief Engineer makin’ eyes at the Armoury Officer here.” 

In civvies it was possible to enjoy the slow climb of colour right up the younger man’s elegant neck. Despite the painful twang of his heartstrings, Trip did just that. “It had crossed my mind, yes.” 

Briefly the Southerner contemplated his bashful boyfriend; then the two plates, barely touched, between them. “You not hungry?” he prompted. 

Impossible to confound during war games, Reed was innocence itself in a social situation. “Not particularly,” he replied, frown deepening. Trip grinned. 

“Then what do you say we go find ourselves somewhere a little more private? Say… my quarters?” 

Malcolm was on his feet before the suggestion was made. “Mine are closer,” he pointed out. 

He lingered, staring at the older man’s straight, strong back while Trip disposed of both their unwanted dinners. “Commander?” 

“By about twenty metres, Lieutenant.” For the sake of their audience he could play that game but the moment they were clear of the tables Trip bent to land the killer blow. “But they don’t have a view of a whole alien planet and its two moons just hangin’ in space, and you know what the old songs say about moonlight and love and romance…” 

“If you’re expecting me to dance down the corridor you’ve got another think coming.” Malcolm allowed himself to be swatted cordially on the shoulder then drawn into a light embrace in the sanctuary of the turbolift, the tension he hadn’t fully identified in public leaking out of every pore. “I _want_ people to know about us, Trip, and yes – I’m as surprised about that as you are! It’s the telling them that’s the daunting part.” 

“I know.” In his heart of hearts Tucker wasn’t looking forward to the questions and exclamations _going public_ would entail, which made the concerns of a man infinitely more reserved easy enough to understand. “But it’ll be worth it, Malcolm. We’re worth it.” 

“If I didn’t believe that I wouldn’t be taking the risk, Mister Tucker.” The lift deposited them safely on B Deck, and without hesitation Reed turned away from his quarters toward his lover’s. “Now you said something about privacy, I believe?” 

*

There was no awkwardness, Trip realised two minutes later when they stood shirtless in each other’s arms, kissing in the soft glow of the planet’s light. No diffidence in coming together, his luxuriant chest fur ticklish against Malcolm’s less hirsute form while hands wandered, leisurely rediscovering the contours of the other man’s body. His groin felt tender. Wisps of pleasure rippled in his balls and he could feel his shaft slowly stiffening, the pressure of another erection obvious through two layers of softened denim. He wanted more, he knew that, but there was no rush. Even more than he wanted release, he wanted to do it right.

“Malcolm?”

“Mmm?” That throaty, near-feline purr of complete contentment was a sound he’d never have enough of, even if it meant Malcolm’s mouth had to pull off its proper place at the side of his neck. Tucker shifted until he was looking right down into pleasure-silvered eyes. 

“Wanna move this to bed?”

The haze lifted, leaving a steely concentration many an alien nasty would recognise; proof, Trip diagnosed, that his full meaning had been understood. Strong fingers snagged in the belt loops of his jeans. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Never more sure of anything he shuffled them sideways until Malcolm’s shins nudged the bedframe. “I want to see you, Malcolm. All of you. Please?”

Words, for once, failed him. Reed was amazed he retained enough muscular control to nod. That he had none left to intervene when Trip guided him carefully onto his back, taking care to settle a pillow behind his spinning head, was absolutely inevitable.

He managed to lift his hips but forgot to breathe when trembling fingers eased jeans and boxers down together, the heat generated by the heel of a hand over his fly causing a solar flare of sensation down his length. “Sonofabitch,” Trip breathed, the familiar expostulation oozing down his phallus in a uniquely Tuckeresque caress. “You’re gorgeous.”

Personally Malcolm had never considered his genitalia to be anything beyond functional but when Trip’s fingertip followed the path of his praise he found he was incapable of saying so. He tried – really he did – but the best he could manage was a strangled “ _Uuuuh_.”

“I’ve never touched another man’s.” Logically Trip knew what to expect: the warm, brushed-velvet texture of skin; the potent throb of blood through the thick vein on the underside; the way the flesh twitched and swelled in his grasp. He’d felt it last two nights ago, but that had been different. Then the body jerking to his lightest touch had been his own. Familiar. Unexciting. 

Now it was Malcolm, all milky skin and rich chocolate hair. Gooseflesh raised up Trip’s arm. Sizzling sensation ran into his belly and lower. Malcolm was…

Hard as granite and digging his hips down into the mattress, applying teeth to lower lip and leaving small indents when the need for air forced him to let up the pressure. Fighting the all feelings he, Trip Tucker, was unleashing through that compact, sinewy, sexy-as-all-hell British body.

“I wanna make you come, Malcolm.” He’d never wanted to see a partner succumb to his pleasuring more. Trip focussed his caresses, deliberately applying extra pressure at the spots he knew drove him wild, right at the base then just under the empurpled head, glorying in the wanton moan Reed couldn’t repress. 

Oh, he wanted to come! Every muscle was tight, tension curling at his toes and seizing the fingers that kept a death-grip on the sheets, but something was missing, something Malcolm needed even more than immediate release. “With me,” he panted even as his hips arched, pushing him harder into Trip’s wonderful work-rough hand. “Please, Trip. Need you with me.”

“Oh, boy.” Next shore leave, he’d remember to wear sweats. Removing jeans one-handed, especially with a mighty impressive (if he did say it himself) protrusion against his fly wasn’t easy, but no way in hell was Trip letting go of his man now. 

He forced his pants below knee-level and abandoned them there, powerless against a light tug from his lover that brought him down with a grunt onto the slighter man. Reed shifted, sightlessly perfecting the alignment between them and a bolt of pure pleasure shot through both men. Trip groped the bedding, needing purchase until his brain got down off its fairground ride.

“Look at us.” Malcolm was easing back from the brink as he raced toward it, pulled up short by the sight of their erections nuzzled together, each tiny throb through one triggering an equal reaction in the other. 

“Hot damn.” The broad heads topped with matching fluid pearls, the lengths pressed snug between their bellies, both pulsing like they couldn’t wait to get even closer. Trip had never seen anything more perfect.

Until he glanced up and saw Malcolm’s sharp features so soft, changeable eyes luminescent around hugely dilated pupils. Sweat glistened on his broad brow, shining in the planetary glow. “Gorgeous,” Tucker breathed.

Strong fingers wrapped around his wrist, working the hand between their stomachs before sliding down to link fingers at the base of their shafts. “Good?” Reed exhaled.

“Better than.” Trapped between them the hands began to move, hips to circle in harmony. Trip’s testes tightened abruptly.

“Oh, yes.” Malcolm’s jaw slackened; his eyes glazed over. The pressure around his cock increased, the friction of skin on skin fizzing all the way into his skull and shorting out every restraint mechanism along the way. He bucked violently, head threshing on the snowy pillow, straining for the release that hovered brightly, tantalisingly out of reach. “Oh Trip!”

“C’mon, darlin’.” His original purpose revived Trip dragged his head back, working the flesh beneath his palm on instinct while he devoured every little frown and smile that fluttered across his lover’s intent face. “I gotcha. Come for me, Malcolm. Let go.”

He dug in a fingertip below the head and on an inarticulate cry Reed obliged, wet heat sluicing their fingers in powerful spurts to match the spasms wracking his body. Trip worked him relentlessly, forcing his eyes wide open to brand the image into his brain. Malcolm Reed, wild and uncontrolled, coming apart for him.

He was so caught up admiring Malcolm that his own orgasm slammed in from the blindside, the tension in his loins releasing in a white-hot rush that swept everything but the beautiful face of his man out of Tucker’s mind. He howled, barely aware of the sting at the back of his throat. Convulsions ripped at him, increasing the friction, extending the sensation. Warm liquid spattered his chest, soothing as summer rain until slowly, agonisingly slowly, reality began to return and he rolled, spent, onto the mattress at Malcolm’s side.

Gentle fingers carded through his hair. Soft breath fanned the sweaty strands. “You with me, Commander?” a complacent British voice slurred. Trip tried to answer and came out with a marvel of eloquent composure.

“Umpf.”

“Agreed.” Burrowing closer Malcolm lapped a droplet of semen from his partner’s torso, the tickle of his tongue causing a small aftershock right through Tucker’s body. He yawned hugely, muffling the sound against a solid shoulder. “You okay?”

An arm flopped heavily over his hip. “Never better,” Trip mumbled. “Stay?”

He shouldn’t. But his limbs felt liquid and his eyelids made of lead, and Malcolm wanted nothing more than to snuggle up against that sticky, smelly male body and sleep for the rest of the week. “Just for a bit then,” he sighed, going up an octave when Trip’s broad, hairy thigh insinuated itself between his legs. “But - mustn’t fall asleep.”

“No.” Warm and safe, cocooned in the smell and the feel of his lover Trip flailed vaguely until, more by luck than judgement, his fingers curled around a blanket’s edge. “Just wanna rest my eyes a while, ‘kay?”

“’kay” He could do that. Just for a minute.

Seconds later a soft snore reverberated through the wall of Trip Tucker’s chest as Malcolm slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*

He woke to the pungency of an aroma he hadn’t experienced in far too long, something that for a moment quite distracted him from the unaccustomed glow of starlight pulsing around the room. “Oh, shit!”

“Wassup, Mal?”

_Oh, that voice!_

Muffled by a combination of sleep and English neck Trip’s distinctive Southern drawl had never pulled out a syllable so far, and its effect on Malcolm’s innards was instantaneous. He stopped struggling against sheets and hairy limbs, sinking into the reassuring strength all around him. “We fell asleep. It’s three in the morning.”

“Is it?” The arm across his hip pressed down into a definite embrace. “Well, it’s the best damn three in the morning I’ve ever seen!”

Trip raised his head. Sniffed loudly. “Is that us?”

Sweat and the stale musk of male sex. “’fraid so,” Malcolm admitted. Trip whistled.

“Potent, aren’t we?” he said, shifting just far enough away to insert a hand between their upper bodies, feeling the strange, sticky grittiness knotting his chest hair. “That’s our come, right?”

“I assume that _is_ a rhetorical question?”

The dry words had slipped off his tongue before Reed could stop them and he stiffened instinctively, the apology he knew ought to tumble out crowding up and getting trapped in the back of his throat. Trip snickered.

“Guess there’s nobody else it could’ve come from. You leaving?”

“I’d sooner the crew find out at a time of our choosing, not by my falling over some sleep-deprived ensign prowling the decks at silly o’clock.” Softening the blow with a peck to the nose Malcolm dragged himself upright, stooping to tuck the covers back around his boyfriend. 

Strong hands clamped around his wrists. “Whenever you’re ready, Mal,” Trip murmured, low and intent. “You just say the word, okay?”

His throat closed up. Malcolm jerked his head, helpless to move until Trip let him go, hopping out of bed to putter naked to the door: the perfect host, peeking out to ensure a clear run while Malcolm dressed, boxers tucked casually in the waistband of his jeans. “Breakfast?” he suggested hopefully. The brunet’s eyes lit up.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he pledged, snatching a hand for a last, ardent kiss before bolting away. 

Trip wasn’t running away in abject horror. Maybe this could work after all.


	10. Falling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything’s changed, but nobody knows. It’s an odd kind of limbo, and Lieutenant Reed doesn’t like odd – does he?

His confidence lasted right until he entered the mess hall to find the Chief Engineer already at a corner table for only the second time since they’d begun meeting up, back in the second month of the mission. Tucker was wolfing omelette and toast with his usual enthusiasm but the mere fact he was early was an ominous sign. Left alone in a room that stank of masculine sex, the reality had to have hit hard.

Then he glanced up, caught the lieutenant’s eye and waved. “Morning, Malcolm! I’ve got your tea!” he hollered.

Reed grabbed the counter, too light-headed with relief to respond while Chef piled eggs and bacon up alongside his usual pancakes. “You look like the last chicken after the foxes have been through the hencoop,” Trip informed him cheerfully, half-rising to wave the younger officer into his chair. Malcolm grimaced.

“That’s what seeing you up early does to a man, Commander,” he shot back, giving the dark caramel coloured liquid in his waiting mug a sceptical stare. “Looks all right.” 

“Strong and sweet,” Trip announced, pausing until the cup was at his companion’s mouth before leaning in to strike the killer blow. “Just like you.”

Sure enough, tea sprayed across the table. “I. Am not. Sweet.”

The infuriating Yank merely rolled his eyes. “Course you’re not, darlin’. Anything you say.”

He wanted to protest. The endearment really wasn’t suitable for a public area, and what had they been agreeing about discretion? Somehow all the hackles Malcolm knew should be rising stayed defiantly down and he chuckled, taking a slow sip of his tangy-sweet brew. “It’s perfect, by the way. Like you.”

“See what I mean?” Triumphant, Trip slapped the table. “Sweet!”

“Oh bollocks!” Yes, he conceded, that probably had been, in a soppy, unofficer-like way. “I should’ve seen that coming a mile off! What have you done to me, Trip Tucker?”

“Made you happy?”

Malcolm cocked his head, lips narrowed and nostrils flared, so perfectly _Lieutenant Reed_ that Tucker found himself sitting straighter, his gut contracting as he awaited the formal rebuke. “There’s always that,” the Brit agreed mildly, digging into his scrambled eggs with a schoolboy’s delight. “But it’s not like you to be up and about ahead of me…”

“I couldn’t sleep.” For an instant alarm flashed over the angular face before innate discipline reasserted itself, but that one small moment cracked Tucker’s heart. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you, Malcolm. What we did last night was amazing.”

“I thought so.” His hand moved of its own volition and only at the last moment did the lieutenant regain sufficient control to divert it away from Trip’s and to the safety of his mug. “No regrets?”

“Just that I had to shower this morning. I wanted to keep the smell of you on me all day.”

“I’m sure T’Pol will appreciate the sacrifice.” Both men shuddered at the thought, then Trip’s sunny-sky eyes lit up. 

“Now I _really_ regret it! We’re gonna do that again, yes?”

“Anytime you want – within reason of course.” The weight Reed carried in his boxers doubled instantly. Beneath the table, a large hand gripped his knee.

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Lieutenant,” Trip announced loud enough for a passing Denobulan to hear. The dark-haired officer made a point of rolling his eyes.

“Do I ever let you down, Commander?” he enquired, hitting the perfect put-upon-subordinate tone. Trip’s answering chuckle was positively filthy.

How he managed to get to the bridge without embarrassing himself and the two unsuspecting crewmen sharing his turbolift, Reed would never know.

*

It had to happen. The one day he really needed an alien incursion, a rogue Suliban cell ship or a plain old-fashioned torpedo malfunction to occupy his treacherous mind was the one and only day resolutely determined to be boring. After half an hour at his post with that disgustingly lascivious chortle replaying in his head Malcolm was hard as hell and absolutely hating it.

He’d experienced erotic discomfort on the bridge before: the day Trip spent half a morning fiddling with the captain’s chair, enchanting arse waving right in front of the tactical station, certainly sprang to mind. However, the sensation had never been accompanied by an odd tickle at the base of his skull and the insane urge to giggle before. The first time Engineering hailed Bridge he could have sworn every blood vessel in his body began to sing.

And suddenly every single minor bridge task that could have been delegated to the lowliest crewman had to be attended, instantly, by the Chief Engineer himself. 

Part of Malcolm thrilled to his lover’s presence: that whiff of spice and citrus; the inexplicable thickening of the air on the bridge nobody else seemed to notice. The other part (smaller with each flying visit) recoiled from the reckless unprofessionalism of every little shock.

On the fourth call, to replace a blown relay in Hoshi’s translation unit, the Captain gave up his internal struggle. “Are things just quiet in Engineering Commander, or have you given all your guys the day off?”

“Just comin’ up for a change of scenery, Cap’n. The view’s much prettier up here.”

If his eyes had been front at that moment Malcolm swore it wouldn’t have happened. As they connected smack with the Armoury Officer’s at his aft station a lava flow of heat swept the faces of both men. “Bastard!” he mouthed.

Trip beamed before burying his embarrassed glee in the comm. unit. “You’ve got a seat up here anytime you want to use it,” Archer invited cordially. The Southerner’s shoulders heaved.

“Gee, thanks! Workin’ now, Hoshi?”

“Thanks, Commander.” She patted him playfully. “And take no notice of the captain; it’s nice to think I’m getting _personal attention_ from the Chief Engineer.”

Again those bright, guileless blue eyes flicked around the bridge, resting just a moment too long against a shuttered grey gaze. Reed stiffened against the shiver they unleashed down his spine. 

“Anyone else want me for anything, while I’m here?”

Very deliberately Malcolm lowered his lashes, half-concealing a hungry sweep down that lanky frame. “Uh, better go then,” Trip croaked, lurching inelegantly toward the turbolift.

Malcolm waited until the man was directly between himself and the occupant of the science station, trusting Trip’s bulk to shield his silky instruction. “My quarters. After dinner.”

Not even the Vulcan Watchdog, he was sure, would detect the slight shock that ran down Trip’s spine but he sensed it and he danced for joy inside. _Payback’s a bitch eh, Commander?_

*

When the lift doors stayed resolutely shut all afternoon he found a new game in mentally kicking himself around the bridge and back. Without a regular dose of Tucker-watching time dragged terribly and his recalcitrant mind wandered into ever more dangerous territory. In teasing Trip, it transpired Malcolm had contrived to drive himself insane.

He adored it. The ever-present buzzing in his brain matched the tickling heat in his crotch and it all added up to a smug satisfaction he had never known before. _This is being in love._

He found a seat in the crowded mess with Phlox and Travis when Alpha Shift ended, congratulating himself on choosing the one table where he wouldn’t be required to exert his vocal chords beyond the bare minimum, leaving him free to plot the night’s entertainment while his friends debated the relative merits of Brad Pitt and George Clooney courtesy of Elizabeth Cutler’s latest twentieth century movie fetish. _Bloody fool, that girl. Imagine drooling over two ancient film actors when there’s a dish like Trip on board!_

He didn’t have to look up to know the late arrival to the door of the Captain’s Mess was watching him. Those eyes burned with a signature as unique as any ion trail, stripping through the layers of his uniform until he felt completely exposed. It took all the control Reed possessed to play oblivious. 

Then he had to stare at his empty plate for ten minutes after his companions left, giving his renewed erection time to deflate before racing to his quarters. Knowing Trip’s infamous impatience, he didn’t have much time to make his plans…

*

“Trip?”

The engineer started. “Uh, sorry, Cap’n?” he asked vaguely. T’Pol, directly opposite, raised the tip of one fine brow.

“I didn’t say anything, Commander.” Archer was grinning openly, relishing a rare opportunity to tease his friend. “But I was wondering are you going to eat that chicken or just shred it? Porthos doesn’t need it cutting that fine and I daren’t send food back to Chef in that condition…”

“Sorry.” Slivers of white meat trickled over the edges of his plate and wound their way through the mush of smashed potatoes and peas. “Guess I’m just not hungry.”

“Perhaps, Captain,” She’d deny it ‘til her ears turned into Andorian antennae but T’Pol was relishing his discomfort, “we should call Doctor Phlox. If the commander is unwell…”

“I’m fine.” Two could play at that game and Trip held her cool stare for a long moment knowing anything was less dangerous than meeting the too-knowing green eyes of his oldest friend. “Just not feelin’ the need somehow.”

The double entendre passed over their heads but his body responded with wicked ferocity. Careful to keep the move casual Tucker slipped a little lower in his seat, never more grateful for the crisp, oversized tablecloth Jon’s steward insisted on replacing every day. One _need_ had occupied him to the extent he’d almost knocked out power to three decks blundering around the EPS grid a couple of hours ago. 

After that, Trip had given up serious work and hidden in his office with a stack of tedious reports for the rest of his shift.

_I’m going to lick that smug Limey bastard’s ass when I – oh shit, bad thought, very bad thought! Maybe I can convince T’Pol I’m carrying a spare piece of plasma conduit in my pants?_

Every last little thing that went through his head all day seemed to have a sexual connotation. The one time he’d heard a member of his team mention the armoury, he’d got hard. And while he’d scrambled to answer any call for help from the bridge the brief tubolift journeys had been delicious torture. He hadn’t felt this charged since his teens, and he loved it.

“Trip? Enterprise to Commander Tucker, are you in there buddy?” Now Jon was really worried, and T’Pol – well, most likely she could feel the ambient temperature increasing from the volcano bubbling in his underwear. Tucker tried a plastic smile.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just… preoccupied. Got some letters to finish. D’ you mind if I…”

A brawny hand reached out to grip his wrist, comradely. Trip took a quick breath, steeling himself against the urge to shake it off. “Give my love to your mom,” Archer instructed, much too sympathetic. “And if you decide you’re hungry later, give me a call.”

“Thanks, Cap’n.” The dismissal was paternal and that made Trip feel bad even as he knocked the chair backward in his rush. “See you later. Subcommander.”

If T’Pol answered, he didn’t hear her; nor did he catch the murmured greetings from the last few stragglers still dining as he bolted across the mess hall. No sign of a lithe, dark-haired tactical officer. For the first time all day, that was good news.

He paused outside Reed’s door to smooth his hair, checking himself out in the door and watching his blurred outline wince at its stupidity before hitting the chime with unwarranted force. The door slid open before it could finish ringing.

“Hey.” Sheepish, Trip grinned at his lover. Without a word Malcolm stepped aside, ushering him in.

Then he pounced.

Tucker’s ass hit the bulkhead hard, his skull protected from a similar blow by the hand that curved around it, none-too-gently steering his head down to meet the smaller man’s. Lips stung in a brutal kiss, their teeth scraping as Malcolm did his damndest to inspect the state of the Southerner’s tonsils. “Guess you missed me?” Trip panted when he was finally let up for air.

“A bit.” Sinuous as Eve’s serpent but a whole lot more appealing Reed slithered down Tucker’s length, smoothly pulling his jumpsuit fastening on the way. Hot breath permeated the cotton of his boxers and his hips jerked forward, inadvertently making garment removal easier. With a mischievous grin and a dip of luxuriant lashes, Malcolm took full advantage.

Before Trip could calculate the course of events his penis was engulfed in wet, satiny heat. His kneecaps dissolved. 

Fingertips burned into his hips: Malcolm’s, he realised blearily, holding him steady while that wicked, wonderful mouth roamed the length of his cock. Reed tongued the underside, pressing firmly against the vein where blood throbbed and raced, draining south from the cranium at warp speed. Gently he nudged one beautiful globe with his nose and Trip’s whimper became a full-on moan when mouth replaced nose, a gentle suction triggering explosions of excitement deep inside the sac. 

Malcolm drew back just enough to blow on the soaked testicle, dark gold pubic hairs tickling his nostrils as he admired the gooseflesh popping up at close quarters. Trip squirmed against him, carding his fingers through the Englishman’s dark hair, caressing more than guiding. Reed chuckled.

To Trip it seemed the sound emanated in the base of his cock itself. “Please,” he managed, without a clue what he was asking for. Malcolm, not for the first time, knew better.

His lips brushed the sensitive tip, the lightest of touches evoking another of those enchanting full-body shivers. Trip’s hands tightened reflexively in his hair. “Good man,” he whispered, applying a little pressure to the special spot just below the cock head, sending a spurt of sensation down the whole impressive length. Allowing himself one more inhale of the heady male scent surrounding him, Malcolm relaxed his throat and gulped in as much as he could take.

“Jesus!” To Trip it felt as if his entire body had been swallowed down, all his awareness, every sensation, concentrated in a few vital inches. He rolled into the feeling, against the pressure of Reed’s hands, pressed flat against his hip bones to contain the motion he could no longer feel. Tongues of fire were licking out from his groin; his balls retracted tight and still those sinful lips worked up and down, every delicate tooth-scrape slicing his sensitised flesh like a razor’s blade. 

Coherence fled. Helpless, he ground against his tormentor’s touch. Malcolm’s muffled cackle only intensified the feeling.

Then the Brit’s throat relaxed in tandem with the softening of his hands. Trip felt himself sliding deeper, the contraction of muscles working his full length relentless now, driving him closer and closer, the precipice looming. Guttural grunts reverberated around the room; his body moved faster, harder, courtesy forgotten as he fucked the Brit’s greedy mouth. For a glorious moment every muscle tensed up, holding him on the edge. Then he fell hard into the maelstrom of a deep, throbbing orgasm.

A flurry of small aftershocks accompanied the release of his softened penis from Reed’s glistening lips; another burst echoed the collapse of his bodyweight into waiting arms and it was the scrape of rough Starfleet standard carpet against his bare knees that began Trip’s reintroduction to the real world. “’m never complainin’ about that mouth again, Lieutenant,” he mumbled, snuggling his damp face into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck. Silent laughter flowed through both men.

“I’ll hold you to that, Commander.” It took all the strength concealed in his wiry frame but Malcolm contrived to heft his drooping partner onto the bunk, deftly removing every unnecessary scrap of clothing. By the time he stood back to admire his handiwork Trip’s hazy eyes had opened and were resting with naked admiration on his own very prominent, completely covered, erection.

“That looks awfully painful,” he hinted, offering an almost-steady hand. Careful in guiding his zip past the obstruction, Malcolm hissed his agreement. “Wanna bring it down here?”

Starfleet’s most diligent officer never obeyed an order faster. “I won’t last,” he breathed, letting his knees give way under the lightest brush of thumb against shaft. Trip flashed his cockiest smile.

“You bet you won’t!”

“Oh God!” 

For the next few moments, while a leathery hand worked magic on his cock, Malcolm could find no other phrase and when the knots in his bollocks cut loose, turning his body to molten liquid he lost the capacity to do even that, bucking and howling his pleasure while thick jets of fluid spurted through Trip’s fingers to coat their bellies. It was several minutes before his breathing slowed enough to attempt further speech.

“ _That_ was bloody marvellous.”

“You’re awfully polite, considering where your mouth’s been this evenin’.”

“Oh, well, that was pretty spectacular too.” Dark brows drew together and Trip didn’t even try to stop himself smoothing the cute crease between. “You didn’t mind…”

“Nope.” When he stole a kiss Trip discovered his taste was still on Malcolm’s tongue, and he liked it. “Now where are you goin’?”

“To the bathroom.” Wobbling a little, Reed padded across the cabin. Briefly Trip heard the hiss of gushing water, then the armoury officer reappeared, wiping himself down with a towel. “It may feel lovely now, but rolling over into a puddle of cold semen in the night isn’t high on my list of pleasurable experiences. Here.”

At least he’d used warm water, Tucker reflected when the cloth hit him smack in the stomach. And unromantic practicality aside, Malcolm seemed perfectly content to crawl back into bed and pull up the covers as if the thought of him scuttling off home hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Still, it was best to be clear. “You’re okay if I stay?”

“Only if you want to.” Damn, now that perfect body was tensing up, and more in the _about-to-be-shot-at_ than the _verge-of-howling-orgasm_ way. 

Words obviously weren’t helping so Trip reverted to his preferred operating method; action. He wrapped his arms around the other man and pulled him back into the cradle of his thighs, his chin nestled on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Sweet dreams, darlin’” he whispered, letting exhaustion wrap around him. He held out just long enough to hear Malcolm’s snuffled reply.

“’night, love.”

*

They missed breakfast: usually enough to put Trip into a bad mood for the rest of the morning. Instead he felt warm and fuzzy, images of Malcolm’s sleepy smile springing into his mind at the most unexpected moments. He’d imagined those mesmerising eyes straight from sleep often enough but their beauty – misty blue-grey, like an Atlantic midsummer dawn – had taken his breath away.

Then Malcolm had leaned in to kiss him and any hope of getting it back was lost along with the time to do more than bolt down the hallway to shower and change before his shift.

He hadn’t expected that serenity in his usually paranoid lover when they woke to discover Enterprise already coming to Alpha Shift life around them, but it had calmed his own nerves and enabled him to skitter down the corridor to his own quarters without feeling the cold plating beneath his bare feet. 

_Guess this is it. We’re lovers now. If we spend the night together it’s official, right?_


	11. Settling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's official. They're lovers. So - what happens now? With Trip and Malcolm, what would you expect?

Enterprise, it seemed, had no intention of falling out of space because two of her senior officers were engaged in a clandestine romance. Trip whistled a lot as he sauntered through her corridors; stayed serene when called on to stand placidly by his boyfriend during the interminable aimless staff conferences Jon called purely for something to do in a region of empty space; and was sanguine when the mess hall crowds meant sharing Reed’s attention with two boisterous ensigns and a nosy Denobulan over lunchtime. He ducked out of an invite to the captain’s quarters in favour of an evening workout with the Tactical Officer and Archer didn’t turn a hair; insisted on answering the increasingly irritable hails from the armoury on upgrade day in person on the pretext of protecting his staff from a certain lieutenant’s glacial displeasure and got away with it despite grinning like a fool every time. _Being discreet_ was a snip, and the rewards were off the scale.

No woman of his experience had been as inventive in the sack, nor brought the range of weaponry to bear that the iron-spined Armoury Officer had at his disposal. One night it was his mouth, licking, sucking and nibbling every inch of Trip’s body until he was sure it was made of malleable fire, dragging him down into hot vortices of unbearable pleasure; the next, the friction of his whole length, hands securing Trip’s above the blond’s head while with a small hip-tilt here and a sudden rub there Malcolm sent him crashing over into a pulsating orgasm. Most days he staggered into Engineering in a daze, tingling all over and with a fresh bloom of bruising someplace about his person to match the ones he knew were hidden beneath Lieutenant Reed’s immaculately pressed blues. 

When the bastard deliberately rubbed his collarbone in a staff conference, blandly looking right through the man whose mark he bore there, Trip had almost come on the spot. 

That was the day Malcolm had discovered just how sweet - and hot – revenge could be.

They didn’t wind up in bed every night. When they did, early meetings with Archer or T’Pol and the ingrained responsibility of senior officers to do right by their staff, allowing lie-ins on birthdays and after double shifts, prevented the visitor staying. Occasional lazy evenings ended with a last kiss at the door before one or the other strolled home on air. 

Trip took advantage of his notorious obtuseness to miss all Archer’s hints about Porthos’ preference for his company. Malcolm cut back the frequency of his post-shift workouts and rescheduled his unarmed combat classes. Life was good.

Then they reached Mantilla Prime.

*

It was a routine first contact, and he was bored. Travis might jump at every chance he got to sit in the big chair but Trip dreaded every call to the bridge, sympathising with Malcolm’s adamant refusal to budge from his tactical station when left to mind the store. Sitting up on the raised plinth staring at a dusty old desert planet on the viewer while the away team got all the fun… he couldn’t see why anyone thought he’d choose to leave his engines for two hours of this.

What made it worse: as well as his First Officer, Jon had decided to go by the book and take his security chief along for the ride. Not only was the bridge looking a lot less pretty than usual, it was quieter. With Mayweather as Acting First instead of Malcolm there were no snippy quips, no half-smiles and no secret lascivious looks. No challenge.

_No fun_. Just the leaden responsibility of a whole starship on his shoulders. It was all Trip could do not to check his watch every other minute and the sudden, static bust of sound over the comm. made him jump higher than Hoshi despite the absence of an earpiece. “Archer to Enterprise! You want to come down here and give us a little cover, Trip?”

Bursts of greenish light erupted from the planet’s surface, licking around the shuttle’s squat rear. “On our way!” he hollered, launching himself forward right as the ship bucked to her helm’s command. “What did you say to upset them? Ensign, target those weapons!”

“Aye, sir!” The response was immediate, but he’d have felt better if it were crisp and English. Jonathan Archer’s rueful chuckle oozed through the background crackle.

“God knows! Have Phlox meet us in the launch bay.”

If the brakes had been slammed on from Warp 5 he couldn’t have smacked the wall harder. Before the pod was aboard he was in the turbolift, howling unnecessary instruction to the ensign left in charge. _Malcolm._ It had to be.

It always was.

By the time he barrelled into the hangar the away team had disembarked and Phlox was clucking energetically over the stooped lieutenant, gently teasing tattered shreds of charred fabric from a bloody shoulder. “What the Hell?”

“Assassination attempt.” Archer’s craggy features were creased with concern. T’Pol, on the other hand, just looked….

Creased.

“You’ve been fortunate, Lieutenant.” Phlox’s cheerful cry overlaid a low hiss of pain. Fine lines crinkled the corners of Reed’s eyes as he squeezed them shut, his bottom lip disappearing beneath a row of bloodied top teeth but, stoic to a fault, he refused to cry out. “The burns are superficial; if you’ll just hold still while I apply an analgesic cream we can attend to your sprain in Sickbay.”

“It only winged me as I fell, Doctor. I’m fine.”

The assurance was grated out, and only a Vulcan could hear it without groaning. “Good reactions, Malcolm,” Archer joked tightly, stopping the meaty paw he’d been aiming before it could connect with raw and blistered flesh. “You okay, T’Pol?”

“I am uninjured. Lieutenant you look pale. Lean on my arm.”

Like an outraged cat, he practically bristled. “I’m fine, Subcommander,” he repeated before they all pretended not to see his eyes cross at the first tentative step he took. Resolutely, Tucker held his ground.

His reward was a tight half-smile when Malcolm shuffled by, nostrils a-flaring as he fought to regulate his pained breathing. “Keep me updated, Doctor,” Archer instructed quietly. Phlox spared a broad smile over his shoulder.

“The burns are probably quite painful, Captain, but Mister Reed will live,” he announced, ignoring his indignant British echo. “Now, Lieutenant, this isn’t the place for a discussion on the precise nature of _light duties_ ; we’ll do that in Sickbay while I strap your wrist, if you don’t mind!”

The argument had already started before the launch bay doors could swoosh behind them.

*

He held off long enough to finish his shift, driving his team through routine reactor maintenance with unwarranted ferocity to keep his thoughts off the scorched mess that was his lover’s shoulder, then headed straight to Sickbay with hands clenched, mentally preparing himself for the usual affray. Confronted by four empty beds and the mild, welcoming chirrup of Phlox’s caged menagerie, Trip was momentarily thrown off balance.

“Ah Commander, you’ve come to check on Lieutenant Reed of course.” Phlox bustled from his compact office with a smile. “I’ve dismissed him to his quarters with strict orders to rest, relax and avoid strenuous activity for twenty four hours before I’ll consider clearing him for light duty. If you’d be kind enough to call in and check he’s obeying my instructions…”

“No problem.” The sticky mass at the pit of his stomach loosened. Tucker had a nasty feeling his bowels were following suit, relief striking him low and deep in the guts. Aiming for casual he hopped up onto the nearest bed, swinging his long legs. “What’s the damage?”

“Superficial plasma burns to the shoulder; the sprained wrist is actually Mister Reed’s most serious injury. Apparently as he pushed Subcommander T’Pol clear of the blast he was more concerned with propriety than finding a soft landing.”

Chortling at his own wit the Denobulan waited patiently until Trip managed a watery grin. “He’ll be fine within a couple of days, if he heeds his physician’s advice.”

“There’s gotta be a first time.” This time, more than any other, that advice would be backed by a superior officer’s order, loath as he was to pull rank. “I’ll go check on him now, and – thanks, Doc.” 

He took the scenic route to B Deck that brought him to the galley doors just as the captain passed through them. “Join us?” his friend invited expansively. Trip twisted his hands.

“Thanks, Cap’n but I thought I’d take somethin’ down to Malcolm’s quarters.”

“He’s okay, isn’t he?” Instantly alarmed, Archer caught his shoulder and steered the younger man aside. Trip shrugged.

“Could’ve been worse,” he admitted, repressing a shiver, somehow. “But it’s his right wrist and you know he’d sooner starve than let folks see ‘im struggling to cut his food. Figured if I took him something…”

“You’re a good man, Trip.” The grip on his shoulder tightened until it burned, eyes of the clearest jade fixed unnervingly on his overheated face. “And Malcolm’s a lucky guy.”

“Yeah.” It took a second for the double meaning to emerge and by the time it had Archer was high-tailing it for the safety of his private dining room. _Shit. What gave me away?_

All their adventures together had been strictly heterosexual: given that he’d never really looked at another guy before Malcolm, Trip was sure of that. He’d been carefully professional lately, never allowing himself to moon over the tactical officer on duty. How could he know?

He couldn’t, he assured himself. His conscience, always tender where Jon Archer was concerned, was tormenting him. Reminding him he wanted to tell, but couldn’t. 

Not without risking a one-way trip to the nearest airlock anyway.

*

“You don’t have to cut everything up for me, Trip. I’m not an invalid.”

“Phlox says you’re to rest up.” Diligently chopping up a moist salmon fillet, Trip dunked a chunk in its rich tarragon sauce and offered it to his host’s thinned lips. Malcolm scowled.

“It’s only a sprain,” he muttered. 

“And it hurts.” Those small furrows across the forehead weren’t normally visible and when he moved it was with none of his usual feline fluidity. “Dammit, Malcolm! Just eat, willya? I’m not leaving until I know you’ve finished, so quit whinin’!”

“Sorry.” When long lashes dipped and pretty pink lips quivered Trip could gladly have smacked his own ass. “I don’t mean to be an ungrateful prick but I’m sore all over and you’re being so kind…”

“You shouldn’t have been such a gentleman; T’Pol’s got plenty of padding for a guy to land on.” With a suggestive waggle of the eyebrows he speared a broccoli floret and brushed it across his boyfriend’s mouth. Reed almost choked on it.

“I’d have bounced straight back into the firing line off that chest,” he chortled while Tucker pounded him on the back, careful to avoid the damaged shoulder. “Between a rock and a plasma weapon there’s really only one choice. Are you going to eat anything, or just force-feed the lot to me?”

“I hate broccoli.”

“I bet your mother saw a lot of that look.” Lightly Malcolm traced a finger over that petulant pout, savouring the rush of sensation to his toes when Trip’s tongue wound sinuously around it. “The salmon’s good.”

“Only the best for my wounded soldier.” Jonathan Archer’s face swam across his vision for an instant but impatiently Tucker forced it away, leaning in to claim a tarragon flavoured kiss that deepened with the light pressure of a fine-boned hand at the back of his neck. “Let me get you to bed.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Lazily Reed stretched, the elegant movement curtailed by the first sting around his shoulder. “Oh, bollocks! Maybe I should try sleeping on my stomach?”

“We’ll figure something out.” They failed the first challenge – removing his loose sweatshirt without jarring – but when Tucker applied the faintest touch of his tongue to the afflicted area Reed forgot to care. Swiftly stripping to his boxers, the Southerner pulled back the covers and climbed in, holding them clear while his partner gaped. “Maybe if you lean against me….” Trip suggested hopefully.

“Good idea.” Realisation brought a glow back to features that had been pale and pinched all evening. Cautious, Trip wrapped a reassuring arm around the slighter man as he wriggled into a moderately comfortable position, feeling his sigh of relief ripple through them both when he reached it. “’night, Trip. And thanks.”

“Anytime, darlin’.” He wouldn’t get a lick of sleep himself but when Malcolm’s breathing began to lengthen, his muscles to relax, Trip decided it was worth it. Mal was okay. Jon probably knew, and had, in his own unsubtle fashion, made it plain he wouldn’t interfere. What more could he ever want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly getting to the end of this fic - only the sequels to go! Greetings of the Season to all!


	12. Getting Your Greens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're blissfully happy, but one thing's been bothering Trip. Is Malcolm ready for where an engineer's curiosity might take him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is (at last!) the final chapter of this particular story, but two short sequels are in the works. Thanks to all who have read and commented!

Tucker watched his friend more closely after that night, noting every slide of the eyes from himself to his neighbour at conferences, every twitch of the mouth when he took up his favourite bridge position beside the tactical station. Though he didn’t dare mention it to Malcolm, Trip felt his confidence growing by the hour. Jon knew, and he was happy.

Not, Trip conceded, as happy as he was late at night when Reed waltzed into his quarters without a _by-your-leave_ , smug as the cat with a canary dipped in cream from giving Mayweather his weekly strategic thrashing over the chessboard. “Maybe I should learn to play,” he murmured, sliding his hand inside the slighter man’s jumpsuit to squeeze a nipple through the thin layer of undershirt. Suitably distracted, Malcolm allowed himself to be guided into the viewport chair, arching lazily into his lover’s gentle hands.

“Wanna make out?” The seat was just broad enough for two slim-hipped guys willing to keep close, a fact Trip intended to make full use of. Soft breath with the faintest coffee tang fanned his upper lip for a moment before Reed, ever the man of action, gave his unequivocal response

“Oh, yeah.” One kiss made him dizzy, the supple movement of Malcolm’s tongue in his mouth hitting Trip’s system like a shot of raw spirit. Desperate, he focussed on the bright light of his original intention in passion’s gathering fog, sliding the top half of Reed’s uniform off and following it, down on his knees with the long zip between his teeth. 

Impatient fingers tugged his hair and he leaned in, nuzzling the stirring bulge at the Englishman’s crotch. “Smells good down here,” he rumbled, one hand shifting around to urge his man’s hips up. “You gonna help me with this?”

“Gladly.” Wandering hands inside his underwear; hot, damp breath rustling his pubic hair. Malcolm was in heaven, critical faculties offline. He undulated sensuously into Trip’s touch, aware of the cool kiss of air on bare flesh where it contrasted with rough skin and full, pliant lips. The firm cushion beneath him softened into cotton wool. The plating under his boots became quicksand. He was sinking, and it was glorious. “Trip!”

“Easy, lover.” Lifting his head a millimetre Tucker fluttered the word across his cock head, following it up with a deft flick of the tongue Malcolm felt reverberate all the way back to his arsehole. He whimpered, clawing sightlessly at the kneeling blond. “That good?”

“Marvellous.” Surely he wasn’t expecting a running commentary?

Air cascaded down the sides of his swollen organ, chasing a familiar honey-toned chuckle. The sweet snub of a nose followed close behind, ticklish when it nudged the heavy softness of his balls. Reflexively his hands tightened. 

When tongue replaced nose, he surrendered. Unconditionally.

Hunkered down low in his chair he moaned aloud, revelling in the brazen joy flooding his system. Heat uncoiled in his belly, softening tight muscles from the inside. “ _Yeesss_ ,” he exhaled, electrified by the long, wet stroke along his underside. “Trip, I can’t…”

Whatever it was he couldn’t do was forgotten when the top half of his penis was consumed like an oversized lollipop. His head jerked back. Sensation sizzled up his spine. “Jesus!”

“Ah’m goin’ up in your estimation.” Moist and muffled, the cocksure words were a deep caress all of their own and it was all he could do not to buck, push himself up into that luscious, all-consuming mouth over and over until…

“Oh, God!”

It occurred to him for an instant to wonder where Trip had learned to do this. Then the rippling muscles of that wide-open, wonderful throat clenched around his entire length and it didn’t matter anymore.

Waves of pleasure washed out, each one cresting that little bit higher. The universe was brightening, his awareness sharpened until it was almost painful: the satin slide of hair burning his fingers; the repetitive _thud-thud_ of his heart pounding hard against his ribcage; the sting of every slurping sound Trip made against his ear. He identified every individual element for a nanosecond before they all merged beautifully, brilliantly, breaking over him in a tsunami of bliss while someone, somewhere a long, long way away howled his lover’s name.

Minutes passed. Gradually his breathing steadied and a prickling awareness of scrutiny brought his lolling head up. Trip sat back on his haunches, fangs of semen trickling from the corners of his mouth, just.... watching. “Welcome back,” he ventured. 

Malcolm felt his jaw stretch. “You’re a mess.”

“And they say romance is dead.” Tucker chucked him lightly under the chin, bones giving an audible creak as he got to his feet and extended a hand. “Wanna take this somewhere more comfortable?”

Only when he swayed, his exposed front connecting with the blond’s clothed one did Malcolm identify a distinctive stickiness around the man’s midriff. “Er, Trip?” he tried. 

“I came when you did.” No less bemused the engineer tugged helplessly at his uniform, grateful for the deft touch of fine-boned British hands that came to his aid. “I’ve never done that before, but the look on your face...”

Malcolm flushed. “Yes, well, I wasn’t expecting that,” he confessed, steadied by the routine act of removing clothes. Limbs comfortably tangled they tumbled onto Trip’s bunk, foreheads brushing. “Christ! If I’d known your mouth was good for _that_ I’d have had you up against a wall months ago!”

At such close quarters he got the benefit of every little twitch of facial muscles contorting into a look of mingled pride and shyness. “Been practisin’,” Tucker admitted. Both dark brows shot toward Reed’s hairline.

“I’m not sure I want to know the answer but - how does one practise _that_?”

“I got me a cucumber from the galley and... practised.” Tremors were running through the body against him and when Malcolm flipped over, burying his face in the pillow Trip understood why. “Are you laughin’ at me?”

He meant to sound outraged, but through a Krakatoan eruption of giggles it was never going to happen. Reed’s shoulders heaved. He mashed his face deeper into the bedding. Trip threw an arm across him and hugged tight.

“Guess I did enough laughin’ at myself, but it worked, right?” The Englishman was shaking hard, muffled snorts bleeding into the pillows. “I figured it’d get me past the gaggin’ reflex and… Malcolm, when you do that to me, it’s incredible. I wanted to give a little back.”

“Oh, love.” If the image of Trip deep-throating one of Chef’s finest specimens wasn’t so comical Malcolm suspected he’d be fighting back tears of another kind when he turned onto his back and gazed up into sparkling ocean eyes, hands tucked behind his head. “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me!”

Trip swooped down for a kiss that stopped his laughter in the most efficient way. “You’re a little _bulkier_ than I’m used to,” he said huskily, savouring the way his man preened at the implication. “And you taste a lot nicer too. Have I got come on my chin?”

Malcolm considered him for a moment, then arched up and lapped the last few traces away. “Not now,” he said. Trip grinned.

“You’re okay with me doin’ it again sometime?” he asked, assuming his best puppy-dog pose. Strong arms tugged him down for a breath-robbing hug. 

“I wouldn’t want your little venture into criminality going to waste, Commander. Nicking Chef’s produce,” Reed clarified hastily. 

“He didn’t report it?” The whole day after had been spent hopping at every tiny peep from Engineering’s comm., so certain had he been of a frosty summons to the ready room. Malcolm’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, he stopped reporting that kind of offence a _long_ time ago,” he said, the words quavering just enough to prove he was on the brink of another body-melting bout of hysterics. “Didn’t you notice he stopped bragging about the _broad based, perfectly straight, magnificent vegetable specimens the resequencer is creating, Captain_ about three months into the mission?”

“I wish you wouldn’t _do_ that in bed, it gives me the heebie-jeebies.” The inflexion and intonation were perfect but sometimes Mal’s gift for mimicry felt light years out of place. “Wait a minute! You’re sayin’ I’m not the first?”

“Far from it.” Aware he wasn’t going to get away without a full declaration Reed heaved himself into a seated position and brought up the ambient lighting a degree. “I rather disgraced myself when he insisted on summoning the captain to his larder to authorise a DNA scan of the remaining contents to _identify the thief_. Your Crewman Harker’s a right one, isn’t she? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt, but she’d handled every bloody carrot! Hess was cleverer: didn’t leave so much as a fingerprint but then she couldn’t resist bragging about the results after self-defence training the following night.”

“Why would my staff be stealin’…”

Even as he asked understanding slammed his skull, and to Malcolm’s raucous delight the ebullient Chief Engineer went red to the roots of his hair. “They were usin’ them up _there_?” he sputtered, making a hand gesture to horrify his Momma by way of elucidation. Reed nodded.

“Apparently. I’m not sure which of us went redder when I suggested to Captain Archer that he consider re-equipping the hold with a miniature sex shop to, ah, satisfy the requirements of personnel on deep-space duty.”

“Sonofabitch!” Sucking off a cucumber didn’t seem so crazy but Trip wasn’t sure he could ever look his female staff in the eyes again, and sleeping without nightmares for the foreseeable future was a definite no-no. “Malcolm, that’s disgusting!”

“Not if I overheard Hess correctly. I don’t make a habit of earwigging outside their showers but given Chef’s outrage the mere mention of the word _carrot_ was giving me the willies.” Not, Reed realised belatedly, the most appropriate phrase he could have used, but it eased Trip’s discomfort enough for a gusty guffaw. “I _did_ suggest to the captain that the relevant departmental head be warned to keep a better rein on his staff, but he didn’t feel it was advisable…”

“Remind me t’ thank him someday.” Secretly Trip was amazed that such an obvious teasing opportunity had been passed up, proof positive how mortified Archer had been when confronted with his female staff’s erotic activities. “And I promise never to go thievin’ from the pantry again.”

“I should think not.” Sliding back to a prone position had the stimulating side-effect of rubbing every millimetre of Malcolm’s body against his mate’s, reviving a tingle he’d thought stilled for the night. “You’re more of a carnivore anyway.”

“Sure am.” Ghosting a hand between them, Tucker palmed the softness of his partner’s sacs, receiving a tiny whimper by way of encouragement. “’sides, I’ve got a whole lot more I wanna get mah teeth into.”

“Given the way this conversation’s been going, I’m not entirely sure I like the sound of that.” The fingers playing with his testes moved to dance along his phallus; a rapid strategic reassessment was clearly in order. “But oh God, if you keep doing that…”

“I was hopin’ you’d say that.” The mesmerising fingers stilled, bringing Malcolm’s surroundings back into focus and he realised his beloved was, unusually, struggling for a phrase. “See, I’ve been studying…”

“I assume we’re not talking engine schematics?” The implication made him feel warm all over but there was an insidious tickle of fear in Reed’s bowels. Trip wagged his head.

“There’s other things I’m thinkin’ I’d like to play with,” he drawled, pulling out each word to a ridiculous length. “I mean – you’re gonna have to help me here, Malcolm. I got all the tools, but you’ll have to show me how to use ‘em, okay?”

“Oh, love.” The strength of his affection for this blunt, honest, utterly honourable soul overwhelmed him. Malcolm dragged the startled American into a crushing hug, hiding his hot face long enough to stop the tears stinging. “There’s absolutely nothing mandatory, all right? All that matters is that whatever we do is mutually enjoyable. I couldn’t bear for you to feel pressured…”

“Aw shit, why d’ you have to see the negative in _everything_?” He’d expected it; leapt at the chance to raise the subject in a jovial way but even so, Malcolm’s innate pessimism still hurt. “Malcolm, I don’t think there’s a way of bein’ naked with you I won’t like, but I’ll never know if you’re gonna run scared every time.”

“It’s more than a bit different, Trip.” He willed himself not to tense up but the more he tried to relax the together Reed felt every muscle pull. “I assume you’re familiar with the mechanics, so to speak?”

“I know where it all goes; I’m jus’ not sure how it fits.” The insouciance of the man only made him feel worse and when Trip gripped his chin, gently forcing him to meet too-compassionate blue eyes Malcolm realised he’d been rumbled again. “And I’ve read it can hurt but I trust you, Malcolm, and you’ve got to know I’d die before I’d hurt you.”

“It does hurt at first, but it only lasts a moment.” Under that wide summery stare he didn’t stand a chance. The tension leeching out of him, Malcolm stretched to peck the end of his boyfriend’s nose, smiling at Trip’s small protesting squawk. Keeping the movement casual he slipped one hand into the small of the blond’s back, rubbing in slow, relaxing circles. Trip snuffled softly, burrowing into the touch. “As long as both parties are relaxed and take their time with the foreplay, once the initial burn subsides it’s really quite… addictive.”

“You’ve done it before?” The engineer’s forehead dropped to rest against his, long, lightly tanned fingers whispering against his flank. Idly, Malcolm shifted his own southward, gently kneading a taut Southern buttock. 

“Once or twice,” he agreed, slipping the tip of his index finger into Trip’s cleft. Sensing no objection he moved it deeper, carefully parting the cheeks.

“And liked it?” Yes, Trip’s voice was deeper, his breathing a little less even. Still braced for a rapid retreat if called for Malcolm circled his trapped digit around the hidden opening. “Oh, yeah!”

“Nice?” A flutter of silken butterflies played around his sphincter and for a moment coherent speech was impossible. Trip jerked his head so sharply their noses bumped. “Shall I do it again?”

“Please.” A second slim digit arrived to massage the tight muscles around his hole. Trip exhaled lightly, focussed in on the strange sensation. “’s good, Mal.”

“It gets better.” Reed’s other hand brushed his parted lips and instinctively Trip pulled the fingers in, sucking them long and hard. Momentarily light-headed the Englishman almost forgot his devious purpose until he was released.

Nimbly he swapped hands, easing the tip of his wet forefinger into Tucker’s receptive channel. “That’s – weird,” Trip told him, eyes gone wide at the first light brush of his inner walls. Malcolm cocked a brow at him.

“Want me to stop?” he asked, perfectly casual. 

“Don’t you dare!” Shock made him tense up and that, Trip discovered, did a funny thing to his invaded ass. Deliberately he clenched the relevant muscles again. Malcolm chuckled.

Rich and smoky as good whisky the sound oozed from Tucker’s ear down to meet the swirl of sensation working up from his rectum. Nimbly working the ring from both sides Malcolm inserted his index finger, twisting and turning them to stroke satin internal skin for the first time. Trip exhaled deeply. “Still okay?”

“And then some.” Slack-jawed and cross-eyed with pleasure the blond pushed back hard against the intrusion, shots of heat lancing out when the digits spread and blunt tips smoothed inside his channel. Long, deep strokes interspersed with short circular rubs around his entrance, never settling into a pattern long enough to get familiar. _Keeping me off-balance_ , he thought. _Again._

The thought scattered to the space winds a moment later when Malcolm found something – _somewhere_ – and electricity surged the whole length of his spine. Trip jolted, starbursts exploding across his vision. “What the hell?” he panted.

“Mister Tucker, meet your prostate.” Malcolm’s voice seemed to float across a chasm but that couldn’t be right because those were Malcolm’s lips, all softness and strength moulding with his; Malcolm’s tongue sliding around in his mouth; Malcolm’s hand manipulating his cock even while Malcolm’s fingers, three of them now, twirled inside his ass and it was all so good, having Malcolm everywhere, enveloping him, that he couldn’t take any more, he had to – he had to…

The climax came down on him like a rockfall, crushing the air from his lungs while pure pleasure fizzed to every extremity. For a few moments his world shone brilliant white before the dazzling light began to fade and slowly, softly, it all greyed out.

Aeons passed before his breathing levelled and the delicate feathering of fingers in his damp hair began the long pull back to reality. “That was – intense,” he managed eventually, feeling his mouth turn down in a frown at the oddly gravelled tone. “’ve I been screamin’?”

“Just a little.” Equally delicate was the touch of Malcolm’s lips ghosting along his jawbone until with the smallest tip of the head Trip brought them into chaste contact with his own. “You enjoyed that?”

“A lot.” Tenderly he ran a shaky hand across the Englishman’s face, the enormity of his love for the man making his chest ache. “C’n I – would you like me to fuck you someday, Malcolm? Make love to you?”

“God, yes!” He wanted it so badly that the mere suggestion had him dizzy, clinging to his lover for fear he might float away Malcolm decided whimsically, aware of the plasticity of the hard body against him; the slurring edge to the words of a man hovering on the brink of sleep. “Another night, perhaps. Go to sleep now, love.”

“Stay with me?” Furrows cut the golden brow. With a swish of the tongue, he smoothed them away.

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Mistah Tuckah.”

The pledge fell on deaf ears but it hardly mattered. Trip knew. He’d probably known long before Malcolm had figured it out for himself. 

Ruefully accepting he no longer minded being one step behind the infuriating loud-mouthed Yank Malcolm Reed snuggled down, closed his eyes and joined the better half of his soul in sleep.


End file.
